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3ol?Tt Heats's 
Poems. 




THE 



POETICAL WORKS 




JOHN KEATS 



REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS 
WITH NOTES 



FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE 

PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD 



'•>' 



%\ 



7 1893 



NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Street 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 

BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street 






^^ 



Copyright, 

1893, 

By T. Y. CROWELL & CO. 



Typography by J. S. Gushing & Co , Boston. 



Presswork by Rockwell & Churchill, Boston. 



Quae Tibi, quae tali reddam pro carmine dona? 
nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus austri, 
nee percussa iuvant fluctu tarn litora, nee quae 
saxosas inter deeurrunt flumina valles. 



Copiousness in exquisite detail, perpetual freshness of 
■•ase, characterize all the poetry of Keats, and in the 
work of his earlier days are generally more conspicuous 
than unity of interest or perfection of form; — qualities 
which, (as, perhaps, with Shakespeare), his imaginative 
wealth of mind, — aurea facilitas, — prevented him from 
acquiring until first youth was over. Keats is hence a 
Poet especially fit to be read, as the bee tastes the flower, 
a little at a time, and in those pleasant places which he 
loves and describes so well: — He is a companion for the 
fortunate moments of travel or the country : — the 

latis otia fundis, 
speluneae vivique laeus, 

are his natural landscape, the stage and the scenery in 
presence of which he, in the fullest measure, adds happi- 
ness to happiness. And it is for such times, and such 
sympathetic readers, that this little volume has been 
planned; no edition handy for the purpose being at 
present easily attainable. 

Keats was not only among the most spontaneous of our 
Poets; in his regard for his own art, for its own art's sake, 
he appears also to have been eminent. He certainly 



revised his three little volumes, (not reprinted till long 
after his death), vv'ith great care, following certain rules of 
his own, as every finely-gifted Poet will, in order to express 
and aid his rhythm by his punctuation and arrangement. 
On this ground, therefore, it seemed to me worth while to 
reproduce exactly the rare original texts; and also, as a 
little tribute of affectionate honor to one, who, through 
the story of his brief life, and the character revealed in 
his poems and letters, is invested with a personal interest 
and attraction perhaps beyond any in the noble army of 
our Poets. Every line has therefore been thrice collated 
with the primary issues; my printers have aided with their 
well-known accuracy : — the fault is probably with me, if 
the reproduction be, anywhere, imperfect. And, as such 
a facsimile has also a bibliographical interest, variations 
in spelling, — even a few trifling errors or omissions, — 
have been strictly followed.* 

If, however, the text here given is, on this last account, 
not absolutely what Keats, had he lived, might have finally 
left us, it is incomparably nearer to his Autotype than that 
which, in the ordinary editions, has hitherto been accepted. 
So vast a number of deviations, great and small, and (in 
the large majority of instances) injurious, from the Author's 
own published words, w-as brought before me in the process 
of collation, that Keats, I may without exaggeration say, 
cannot be truly read, as he has, hitherto, been generally 
accessible. 

My scheme being to reprint the Poetry which bore the 
sanction of the Poet's own imprimattir, it may be asked 
on what principle a few pieces, left in manuscript, (but 
the absence of which most readers, I think, would have 
regretted), have been here diffidently added? No rigid 

* See note p. vi. 



law can be laid down, perhaps, upon this difficult problem, 
except that it is treason to the dead to pubHsh, (unless for 
purposes of historical truth), anything discreditable to the 
living man. The rule which, ordinarily, seems to me the 
safest and best, — to insert only what is altogether, or 
fairly, on a level with the Poet's best work, — I have here 
endeavored to follow. And, in the case of Keats, it is in 
favor of this canon that his hasty, tentative, or simply 
personal verse is, generally, much inferior, (except in those 
isolated phrases which so great a genius could not, as it 
were, escape), to his finished efforts; — and that we have, 
also, reasonable grounds to infer that he himself printed 
what he thought worthy of publication. 

In the Notes, beside a few simply exegetical, my wish 
has been, avoiding the ambitious attempt at an Essay on 
Keats, to elucidate the rapid, yet gradual, development of 
his powers. Here, by frequent reference to his beautiful 
Letters, I have endeavored to make the Poet his own 
interpreter : — and I allow myself the hope, that few 
readers will find these quotations too lengthy. For the 
rest, in so small a volume, I have thought it wisest to con- 
sult little and use less of what has been supplied by previous 
commentaries and essays upon Keats; — including here 
two recent critical editions, announced and published after 
I had framed the plan of this book. And, as its object is 
different, mine will, I hope, be found to compete only in 
the common aim of extending the high permanent pleasure 
and profit, which it is the peculiar privilege of Poetry such 
as this to confer upon mankind. 

F. T. P. 

A ugust, 1884. 



NOTE. 



To make the present edition exactly correspond with the English 
edition, double quotation marks should take the place of single ones, 
p. 82, 1. II, 12, 28; p. 126, 1. 22, 37; p. 127, 1. 14; p. 128, 1. 5. 

Quotation marks should be omitted, p. no, 1. 39; p. 132, 1. 3, 4. 

" to" should read " too," p. 157, 1. 22. 

" or" should read " on," p. 272, 1. 6. 

" u " should be supplied to the following words: — 

arbor, pp. 22, 68, 97, 107, 125, 162, 165. ardor, pp. 13, 28, 123 
armor, p. 12. armory, p. 259. behaviors, p. 3. belabor'd, p. 112 
clamor, p. 138. color, pp. 77, 159. color'd, pp. 129, 135. colors 
pp. 72, 175. demeanor, p. 250. endeavor, p. 79. endeavoring, p 
255. favor, p. 98. favorite, pp. 151, 179. favors, p. 3. flavor, p 
30. harbored, pp. 184, 246. 'havior, p. 153. honor, pp. 19, 33, 52 
63. 77> 95, 186, 237, 238. honors, p. 94 (but not p. 8, 1. 24). humor 
p. 182. laboring, pp. 206, 242, 248. labors, p. 131. neighbor, p. 176 
neighbor'd, pp. 177, 253. neighborhood, p. 73. odor, p. 222 (but not 
odorous, pp. 95, 150). odors, pp. 116, 186. savor, pp. 30, 246. 
splendor, pp. 8, 44, 66, 72, 78, 112, 114, 134, 187, 189, 260, 264, 272 
(but not p. 247, 1. 29). vapors, pp. 248, 249. vapory, pp. 73, 153 
(but not vaporous, p. 84). 

Endymion should have its lines numbered in tens. 

AMERICAN PUBLISHERS. 



CONTENTS. 



1817. 

PAGE 

" I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE HiLL " . . . I 

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem ". . . 7 

Calidore 9 

To SOME Ladies 14 

On receiving a curious Shell, and a Copy of 

Verses, from the same Ladies ... 15 

'Po * * * * .17 

To Hope . 18 

Imitation of Spenser 20 

"Woman! when I behold thee flippant, 

vain" 21 

Epistles — 

To George Felton Mathew .... 23 

To my Brother George 26 

To Charles Cowden Clarke .... 30 
Sonnets — 

To my Brother George 34 

Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt 

left Prison 35 

vii 



vill CONTENTS. 

Sonnets — Continued. PAGE 
" How MANY Bards gild the Lapses of 

Time" 36 

To a Friend who sent me some Roses . . 36 

To G. A. W 37 

"O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell" 37 

To my Brothers 38 

"Keen, fitful Gusts are whisp'ring here 

and there " 38 

"To ONE WHO has been LONG IN CiTY PENT" 39 

On first LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER . 39 
On LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY 

Hour 40 

Addressed to Haydon 40 

Addressed to the Same 41 

On THE Grasshopper and Cricket ... 41 

To Kosciusko 42 

" Happy is England ! I could be content " . 42 

Sleep and Poetry 43 

1818. 

Endymion 55 

1820. 

Lamia . 171 

Isabella; or, the Pot of Basil . , . .193 
The Eve of St. Agnes . . . . \ .212 

Ode to a Nightingale 225 - 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 228'^ 

Ode to Psyche 225^ 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Fancy 231 

Ode 234 

Lines ON THE Mermaid Tavern . . . .235 

Robin Hood 236 

To Autumn 238 

Ode on Melancholy 239 

Hyperion . .241 

POSTHUMA. 

" When I have Fears that I may cease to be " 267 

" In A drear-nighted December" ..... 267 
" Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white 

Pearl" 268 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 268 

The Human Seasons 271 

On Fame 271 

On Fame 272 

" Brigh r Star ! would I were steadfast as 

thou art " 272 

Notes 273 

Index of First Lines ..*.... 297 



[Published 1817] 



poeme 

BY 

JOHN KEATS. 



What more felicity can fall to creature, 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty." 

Fate of the Butterfly. — Spenser. 



©£tJicati0n. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

Glory and loveliness have passed away; 

For if we wander out in early morn, 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 
No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and ])inks, and violets, to adorn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these, 

And I shall ever bless my destiny. 
That in a time, when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 



[The Short Pieces in the middle of the Book, as well as 
some of the Sonnets, were written at an earjier period 
than the rest of the Poems.] 



POEMS. 



" Places of nestling green for Poets made." 

Story of Rimini. 

I STOOD tip-toe upon a little hill, 

The air was cooling, and so very still, 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, 

Had not yet lost those starry diadems 

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves : 

For not the faintest motion could be seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o"er the green. 

There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, 

To peer about upon variety ; 

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 

To picture out the quaint, and curious bending 

Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending ; 

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted, 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posey 



2 POEMS. 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. 

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them ; 

Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them ; 

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 

Moist, cool and green ; and shade the violets, 

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined. 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of hght green breth[r]en shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 
Round which is heard-a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters 
The spreading blue bells : it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds. 

Ye ardent marigolds! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 

For great Apollo bids 

That in these days your praises should be sung 

On many harps, which he has lately strung ; 

And when again your dewiness he kisses. 

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 

So haply when I rove in some far vale, 

His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight : 
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things. 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 



POEMS. 3 

And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 

They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. 

Hov/ silent comes the water round that bend ; 

Not the minutest whisper does it send 

To the overhanging sallows : blades of grass 

Slowly across the chequerd shadows pass. 

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 

Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle 

With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 

If you but scantily hold out the hand, 

That very instant not one will remain ; 

But turn your eye, and they are there again. 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 

And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ; 

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, 

And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 

So keeping up an interchange of favors. 

Like good men in the truth of their behaviors [.] 

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 

From low hung branches ; little space they stop ; 

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 

Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 

Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings. 

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray^ 

That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, 

Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 

Fanning away the dandelion's down ; 

Than the light music of her nimble toes 

Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 

Playing in all her innocence of thought. 

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, 



4 POEMS. 

Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look ; 

O let me for one moment touch her wrist ; 

Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 

And as she leaves me may she often turn 

Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. 

What next? A tuft of evening primroses, 

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 

Bat that 'tis ever startled by the leap 

Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with all her light. 

O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight 

Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ; 

Soangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 

Lover of loneliness, and wandering, 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to teil delightful stories. 

For what has made the saga or poet write 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light? 

In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid, 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 

When it is moving on luxurious wings. 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 

Overhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar, 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles : 

So that we feel uplifted from the world, 

Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd. 





How silent comes the water round that bend.' 



POEMS. 5 

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went 
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 
First touched ; what amorous and fondling nips 
They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, 
And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : 
The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder — 
The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder ; 
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, 
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 
So did he feel, who pulPd the boughs aside, 
That we might look into a forest wide. 
To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades 
Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, 
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled 
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
Poor Nymph, — poor Pan, — how did he weep to find, 
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 
Along the reedy stream ; a half heard strain, 
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 

Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring? 

In some delicious ramble, he had found 

A little space, with boughs all woven round ; 

And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 

Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool, 

The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping 

Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 

A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, 

Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness, 

To woo its own sad image into nearness : 

Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; 

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 

So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 

Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ; 



6 POEMS. 

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew 

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, 

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 

Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing 

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 

From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 

Full in the speculation of the stars. 

Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 

Into some wondYous region he had gone, 

To search for thee, divine Endymion! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 

Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 

And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow 

A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling, 

The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 

But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 

Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice. 

The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 

Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won. 

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
Of all tha brightness that mine eyes have seen! 
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine. 
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
O for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night \ 

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels. 
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 



POEMS. 7 

Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 

The evening weather was so bright, and clear, 

That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, 

Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 

And lovely women were as fair and warm, 

As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 

The breezes were ethereal, and pure, 

And crept through half closed lattices to cure 

The languid sick ; it cool'd their fever'd sleep, 

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 

Soon they awoke clear eyed : nor burnt with thirsting, 

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : 

And springing up, they met the wondering sight 

Of their dear triends, nigh foolish with delight; 

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, 

And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 

Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd 

With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd 

To see the brightness in each others' eyes ; 

And so they stood, filPd with a sweet surprise, 

Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. 

Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 

Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses. 

That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : 

Was there a Poet born ? — but now no more, 

My wand'ring spirit must no further soar. — 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A 
POEM. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. 

Not like the formal crest of latter days : 

But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; 



8 POEMS. 

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, 

Could charm them into such an attitude. 

We must think rather, that in playful mood. 

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, 

To show this wonder of its gentle might. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 

Athwart the morning air : some lady sweet, 

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 

From the worn top of some old battlement 

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent : 

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, 

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 

Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take, 

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake. 

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, 

And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 

Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty. 

When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 

And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit? 

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, 

Leaps to the honors of a tournament. 

And makes the gazers round about the ring 

Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing? 

No, no ! this is far off: — then how shall I 

Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy, 

Which linger yet about lone gothic arches. 

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches? 

How sing the splendor of the revelries. 

When but[t]s of wine are drunk off to the lees? 

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, 

Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield? 

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces 

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens : 



POEMS. c 

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : 
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by? 
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight, 
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 

Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 

And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind ; 

And always does my heart with pleasure dance. 

When I think on thy noble countenance : 

Where never yet was ought more earthly seen 

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 

My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 

Thus startled unaware, 

Be jealous that the foot of other wight 

Should madly follow that bright path of light 

Traced by thy lov'd Libertas ; he will speak, 

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 

That I wdll follow with due reverence, 

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 

Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope 

To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope : 

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flow^ers ; 

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 



CALIDORE. 

gi Jfragntjnt. 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 

His healthful spirit eager and awake 

To fael the beauty of a silent eve, 

Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave ; 

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. 

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 



lO POEMS. 

And smiles at the far clearness all around, 

Until his heart is well nigh over wound, 

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green 

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 

And show their blossoms trim. 

Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow 

The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, 

Delighting much, to see it half at rest, 

Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 

'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, 



And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, 
And glides into a bed of water lillies : 
Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies 
Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew ; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore 
Went off in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light blue mountains : but no breathing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 
Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had known them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, 
Which the glad setting sun, in gold doth dress ; 
Whence ever, and anon the jay outsprings, 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, 
Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn 
Its long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around. 
Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. 



POEMS. 1 1 

The little chapel with the cross above 
Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the white dove, 
That on the windows spreads his feathers light, 
. And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades 

Across the lake ; sequesterd leafy glades, 

That through the dimness of their twilight show 

Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow 

Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems 

Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems 

A little brook. The youth had long been viewing 

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing 

The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught 

A trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraught 

With many joys for him : the warder's ken 

Had found white coursers prancing in the glen : 

P^riends very dear to him he soon will see ; 

So pushes off his boat most eagerly, 

And soon upon the lake he skims along, 

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; 

Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly : 

His spirit flies before him so completely. 

And now he turns a jutting point of land, 
Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand : 
Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, 
Before the point of his light shallop reaches 
Those marble steps that through the water dip : 
Now over them he goes with hasty trip, 
And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors : 
Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 
Of halls and corridors. 

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things 
That float about the air on azure wings. 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang 
Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang. 
Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain, 



1 2 POEMS. 

Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein ; 

While from beneath the threatening portcullis 

They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss, 

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 

How tremblingly their delicate ancles spanned! 

Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 

While whisperings of affection 

Made him delay to let their tender feet 

Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet 

P>om their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent : 

And whether there were tears of languishment, 

Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, 

He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 

With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye 

All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand. 

Fair as some wonder out of fairy land, 

Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers 

Of v.hitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : 

And this he fondled with his happy cheek 

As if for jov he would no further seek ; 

When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 

Came to his ear, like something from beyond 

His present being : so he gently drew 

His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new, 

P>om their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, 

Thank'd heaven that his joy was never ending ; 

While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly pressed 

A hand heaven made to succor the distressed ; 

A hand that from the world's bleak promontory 

Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 

There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair 

Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal 

A man of elegance, and stature tall : 

So that the waving of his plumes would be 

High as the berries of a wild ash tree, 

Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 

His armor was so dextrously wrought 



POEMS. 13 

In shape, that sure no living man had thought 

It hard, and heavy steel : but that indeed 

It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, 

In which a spirit new come from the skies 

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 

'Tis the far-famM, the brave Sir Gondibert, 

Said the good man to Calidore alert ; 

While the young warrior with a step of grace 

Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face, 

And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 

The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 

Of the aspiring boy ; who as he led 

Those smiling ladies, often turned his head 

To admire the visor arched so gracefully 

Over a knightly brow ; while they went by 

The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were 

pendent, 
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated ; 

The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted 

All the green leaves that round the window clamber, 

To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. 

Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel. 

Gladdening in the free, and airy feel 

Of a light mantle ; and while Clerimond 

Is looking round about him with a fond. 

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning 

Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm 

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 

From lovely woman : while brimful of this, 

He gave each damsePs hand so warm a kiss, 

And had such manly ardor in his eye, 

That each at other look'd half staringly ; 

And then their features started into smiles 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came, 
Softlv they blew aside the taper's flame ; 



T4 POEMS. 

Clear was the song from PhilomePs far bower ; 
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower ; 
Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trampefs tone ; 
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : 
Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, 
As that of busy spirits when the portals 
Aie closing in the west ; or that soft humming 
We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 
Sweet be their sleep. ********* 



TO SOME LADIES. 

What though while the wonders of nature exploring, 
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend ; 

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend : 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream 
rushes, 

With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, 

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews. 

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling? 

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air. 

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, 
I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 

And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me. 

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending. 

Had broucrht me a gem from the fret-work of 
heaven ; 
And smiles, with his star -cheering voice sweetly 
blending. 
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ; 



POEMS. 15 

It had not created a warmer emotion 

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with 
from you, 
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the 
ocean 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. 

For, indeed, His a sweet and peculiar pleasure, 
(And blissful is he who such happiness tinds,) 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure, 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



On receiving a ciirions Shelly and a Copy of 
Verses, from the same Ladies. 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain t 

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 

When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a 
fountain ? 

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold ? 
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine 

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold? 

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? 

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? 
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? 

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Brito- 
martis ? 

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave. 
Embroidered with many a spring peering flower? 

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? 



1 6 POEMS. 

Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art 
crown'd ; 

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth ! 
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers to bless, and to sooth. 

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair 
A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain ; 

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. 

This canopy mark : 'tis the work of a fay ; 

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, 
When lovely Titania was far, far away. 

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish. 

There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute 
Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales 
listened ; 
The wondering spirits of heaven were mute. 

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft 
glistened. 

In this little dome, all those melodies strange. 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh ; 

Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change ; 
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, 

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. 

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, 
Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. 

Adieu, valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crownM ; 

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, 
I too have my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers, to bless and to sooth. 



POEMS. 1 7 



TO * * * * 

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance. 

And thy humid eyes that dance 

In the midst of their own brightness ; 

In the very fane of lightness. 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, 

Picture out each lovely meaning : 

In a dainty bend they lie, 

Like to streaks across the sky, 

Or the feathers from a crow. 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair that extends 

Into many graceful bends : 

As the leaves of Hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 

Peeps the richness of a pearl. 

Downward too flows many a tress 

With a glossy waviness ; 

Full, and round like globes that rise 

From the censer to the skies 

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness 

Of thy honied voice ; the neatness 

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd : 

With those beauties, scarce discerned, 

Kept with such sweet privacy, 

That they seldom meet the eye 

Of the little loves that fly 

Round about with eager pry. 

Saving when, with freshening lave, 

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; 

Like twin water lillies, born 

In the coolness of the morn. 

O, if thou hadst breathed then, 

Now the Muses had been ten. 

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 



l8 POEMS. 

Than twin sister of Thalia? 
At least for ever, evermore. 
Will I call the Graces four. 

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high, 

Tell me what thou wouldst have been? 

Ah! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy broidered, floating vest 

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast ; 

Which, O heavens! I should see, 

But that cruel destiny 

Has placed a golden cuirass there ; 

Keeping secret what is fair. 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested 

Cer which bend four milky plumes 

Like the gentle lilly's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed ; 

Servant of heroic deed ! 

O'er his loins, his trappings glow 

Like the northern lights on snow. 

Mount his back! thy sword unsheath! 

Sign of the enchanter's death ; 

Bane of every wicked spell ; 

Silencer of dragon's yell. 

Alas! thou this wilt never do : 

Thou art an enchantress too, 

And wilt surely never spill 

Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



TO HOPE. 

When by my solitary hearth I sit, 

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ; 
When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye" flit, 

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ; 



POEMS. 19 

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, 

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright 
ray, 
Should sad Despondency my musings fright, 
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away. 

Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy 

roof, 
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. 

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart ; 
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : 

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, 
And fright him as the morning frightens night! 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer; 
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow : 
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head! 

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 

From cruel parents, or relentless fair ; 
O let me think it is not quite in vain 

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air! 
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed. 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head! 

In the long vista of the years to roll, 

Let me not see our country's honor fade : 
O let me see our land retain her soul, 

Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — 
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 



20 POEMS. 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, 

Great Liberty! how great in plain attire! 
With the base purple of a court oppressed, 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : 
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings 
That fill the skies with silver glitterings! 

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
Brightening the half veiPd face of heaven afar : 
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, 
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 
February, 1815. 



LMITATION OF SPENSER. 



Now Morning from her orient chamber came, 
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill ; 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, 
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill, 
And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill. 
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright 
Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : 
There saw the swan his neck of arched show, 
And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 
Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 



POEMS. 21 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e^en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
For sure so fair a place was never seen, 
Of all that ever charmM romantic eye : 
It seemM an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high, 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean 
sky. 

And all around it dippM luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide. 
Which, as it were in gentle amity, 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried-, 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem; 
Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies; 

Without that modest softening that enhances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again : 

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances, 

E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain : 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender. 

Heavens! how desperately do I adore 
Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 

I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. 



2 2 POEMS. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast, 

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, heavens ! I cannot dare 

To turn my admiration, though unpossessed 

They be of what is worthy, — though not drest 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; 

These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, 
Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark 

Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark. 

To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 

Who can forget her half retiring sweets? 

God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing. 

Will never give him pinions, who intreats 

Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear 

A lay that once I saw her hand awake. 
Her form seems floating palpable, and near ; 

Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take 
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 

And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. 



EPISTLES. 



"Among the rest a shepheard (though but young 
" Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill 
" His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill." 

BrttauHia's Pastorals. — Browne. 

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song ; 

Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view 

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 

Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, 

Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd 

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 

The thought of this great partnership diffuses 

Over the genius loving heart, a feeling 

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. 

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee 
Past each horizon of fine poesy ; 
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 
As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted. 
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : 
But 'tis impossible ; far different cares 
Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs," 
And hold my faculties so long in thrall, 
That I am oft in doubt whether at all 
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning : 
Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning ! 

23 



24 EPISTLES. 

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 
Or again witness what with thee IVe seen, 
The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, 
After a night of some quaint jubilee 
Which every elf and fay had come to see : 
When bright processions took their airy march 
Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 

But might I now each passing moment give 

To the coy muse, with me she would not live 

In this dark city, nor would condescend 

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, 

Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, 

That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. 

And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing; 

Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters 

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, 

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite. 

With its own drooping buds, but very white. 

Where on one side are covert branches hung, 

'Mong which the nightingales Jiave always sung 

In leafy quiet ; where to pry, aloof, 

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof. 

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, 

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling. 

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy. 

To say ''joy not too much in all that's bloomy." 

Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid 

To find a place where I may greet the maid — 

Where we may soft humanity put on. 

And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton ; 

And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him 

Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him. 

With reverence would we speak of all the sages 



EPISTLES. 25 

Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages : 
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton''s blindness, 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; 
Of him whose name to evVy heart's a solace, 
High-minded and unbending William Wallace. 
While to the rugged north our musing turns 
We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. 

Felton! without incitements such as these. 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease : 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. 
And make " a sunshine in a shady place : '' 
F'or thou wast once a flowret blooming wild, 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiPd, 
Whence gush the streams of song : in happy hour 
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower. 
Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 
And, as for him some gift she was devising. 
Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream 
To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. 
I marvel much that thou hast never told 
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 
Apollo changed thee ; how thou next didst seem 
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream ; 
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace 
The placid features of a human face : 
That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 
And all the wonders of the mazy range 
O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands ; 
Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands. 

November, 18 15. 



26 EPISTLES. 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

Full many a dreary hour have I past, 

My brain bewildered, and my mind overcast 

With heaviness ; in seasons when Tve thought 

No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught 

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze 

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays ; 

Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely. 

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : 

That I should never hear Apollo's song, 

Though feathery clouds were floating all along 

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, 

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: 

That the still murmur of the honey bee 

Would never teach a rural song to me : 

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting 

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, 

Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold 

Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 

But there are times, when those that love the bay, 

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ; 

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see 

In water, earth, or air, but poesy. 

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, 

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) 

That when a Poet is in such a trance, 

In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, 

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, 

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel. 

And what wt, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, 

Is the swift opening of their wide portal. 

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear. 

Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear. 

When these enchanted portals open wide, 

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, 

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls. 

And view the glory of their festivals : 



EPISTLES. 27 

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run 
Like the bright spots that move about the sun ; 
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar 
Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers. 
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; 
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 
'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose. 
All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses. 
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 
As gracefully descending, light and thin. 
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, 
And sports with half his tail above the waves. 

These wonders strange he sees, and many more, 

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. 

Should he upon an evening ramble fare 

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare. 

Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue 

With all its diamonds trembling through and through ? 

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 

And staidly paces higher up, and higher, 

Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire .'' 

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight — 

The revelries, and mysteries of night : 

And should I ever see them, I will tell you 

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. 

These are the living pleasures of the bard : 

But richer far posterity's award. 

What does he murmur with his latest breath. 

While his proud eye looks through the film of death ? 

'•' What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, 

" Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 

"With after times. — The patriot shall feel 

" My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel ; 



28 EPISTLES. 

" Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers 

" To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 

" The sage will mingle with each moral theme 

" My happy thoughts sententious ; he will teem 

"With lofty periods when my verses fire him, 

" And then Til stoop from heaven to inspire him. 

" Lays have I left of such a dear delight 

"That maids will sing them on their bridal night. 

" Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 

" When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, 

" And form''d a snowy circle on the grass, 

" And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass 

"Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head 

" Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red : 

"For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, 

"Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: 

" Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

" A bunch of violets full blown, and double, 

" Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

"A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

" About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, 

" And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes ; 

" For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears ; 

"One that I fostered in my youthful years : 

"The pearls, that on each glisfning circlet sleep, 

" Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 

" Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

" Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, 

" Be luird with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! 

" Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view : 

" Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, 

" Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

" Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, 

" That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, 

"And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and 

brother. 
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, 
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 
Happier, and dearer to society. 



EPISTLES. 29 

At times, 'tis true, IVe felt relief from pain 

When some bright thought has darted through my 

brain : 
Through all that day IVe felt a greater pleasure 
Than if Td brought to light a hidden treasure. 
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, 
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. 
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, 
Stretched on the grass at my best lov'd employment 
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought 
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. 
E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers 
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers 
Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades, 
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. 
On one side is a field of drooping oats, 
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats ; 
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind 
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 
And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green. 
Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. 
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest. 
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest ; 
For when no more he spreads his feathers free, 
His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
Now I direct my eyes into the west, 
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu! 
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you! 

August, 1816, 



30 EPISTLES. 



TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 
And with proud breast his own white shadow crown- 
ing; 
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 
So silently, it seems a beam of light 
Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — 
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, 
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
In striving from its crystal face to take 
Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure 
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. 
But not a moment can. he there insure them. 
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
For down they rush as though they would be free, 
And drop like hours into eternity. 
Just like that bird am I in loss of time, 
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; 
With shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent, 
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 
Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 
In which a trembhng diamond never lingers. 

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 
Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 
Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, 
And little fit to please a classic ear ; 
Because my wine was of too poor a savor 
For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor 
Of sparkling Hehcon : — small good it were 
To take him to a desert rude, and bare, 
Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease, 
While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 
That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, 
Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : 
Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream 
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 



EPISTLES. 31 

Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook, 

And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 

And Archimago leaning o'er his book : 

Who had of all thafs sweet tasted, and seen. 

From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 

From the sequestered haunts of gay Titania, 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 

One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks 

With him who elegantly chats, and talks — 

The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you stories 

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories ; 

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city, 

And tearful ladies made for love, and pity : 

With many else which I have never known. 

Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown 

Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; 

That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine ; 

What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : 

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. 

And float along like birds o'er summer seas ; 

Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness ; 

Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender- 

ness. 
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 
Up to its climax and then dying proudly ? 
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, 
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load? 
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, 
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? 
Shew'd me that epic was of all the king. 
Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring? 
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, 
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; 
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell ; 
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen, 



32 EPISTLES. 

Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? 

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 

Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 

And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? 

No, doubly no ; — yet should these rhymings please, 

I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease : 

For I have long time been my fancy feeding 

With hopes that you would one day think the reading 

Of my rough verses not an hour mis[s]pent ; 

Should it e'er be so, what a rich content! 

Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires 

In lucent Thames reflected : — warm desires 

To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness, 

And morning shadows streaking into slimness 

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; 

To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter ; 

To feel the air that plays about the hills. 

And sips its freshness from the little rills ; 

To see high, golden corn wave in the light 

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, 

And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white, 

As though she were reclining in a bed 

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures 

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures : 

The air that floated by me seem'd to say 

^' Write! thou wilt never have a better day." 

And so I did. When many lines I'd written. 

Though with their grace I was not oversmitten. 

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better 

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 

Such an attempt required an inspiration 

Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — 

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been 

Verses from which the soul would never wean : 

But many days have past since last my heart 

Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart ; 



EPISTLES. Zl 

By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd ; 

Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and saddenM : 

What time you were before the music sitting, 

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 

Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes 

That freshly terminate in open plains, 

And revePd in a chat that ceased not 

When at night-fall among your books we got : 

No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 

Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 

Mid-way between our homes : — your accents bland 

Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 

Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor. 

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; 

You changed the footpath for the grassy. plain. 

In those still moments I have wished you joys 

That well you know to honor : — "• Life''s very toys 

'• With him," said I, " will take a pleasant charm ; 

"It cannot be that ought will work him harm." 

These thoughts now come o'er me with all their 

might : — 
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night. 

Septetnber, 1816. 



SONNETS. 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

Many the wonders I this day have seen : 
The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
That filPd the eyes of morn ; — the laurel'd peers 

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; — 

The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, 

Its sliips, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, - 
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 

Must think on what will be, and what has been. 

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, 
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, 
And she her half-discovered revels keeping. 

But what, without the social thought of thee, 

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? 

34 



SONNETS. 35 

II. 

TO ****»♦ 

Had I a man^s fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart ; so well 

Would passion arm me for the enterprize : 

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies ; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. 

Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, 
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses 
When steeped in dew rich to intoxication. 

Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. 



III. 
Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison. 

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, 

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, 

In his immortal spirit, been as free 
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 
Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait? 

Think you he nought but prison walls did see, 

Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key ? 
Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair, 

Culling enchanted flowers ; and he flew 
With daring Milton through the fields of air ; 

To regions of his own his genius true 
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair 

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew? 



36 SONNETS. 



IV. 

How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 

A few of them have ever been the food 

Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
And often, v^hen I sit me down to rhyme, 

These will in throngs before my mind intrude : 

But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
Do they occasion ; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store ; 

The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves - 
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 

With solemn sound, — and thousand others more, 
That distance of recognizance bereaves, 

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 



V. 

To a Ft'iend who sent me some Roses. 

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 

What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew 

From his lush clover covert ; — when anew 
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields : 
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 

A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 'twas the first that threw 

Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew 
As is the wand that queen Titania wields. 
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excelPd : 
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me 

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd : 
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness un- 
quell'd. 



SONNETS. 37 

VI. 

TO G. A. W. 

Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance, 

In what diviner moments of the day 

Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray 
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance? 
Or when serenely wandVing in a trance 

Of sober thought? Or when starting away, 

With careless robe, to meet the morning ray, 
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
Haply "'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly. 

And so remain, because thou listenest : 
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 

That I can never tell what mood is best. 
I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatly 

Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



VII. 



Let it not be among the jumbled heap 

Of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep, — 
Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 

May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 

'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift 
leap 
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, 

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, 

Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be 
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind. 

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 



38 SONNETS. 



VIII. 

TO MY BROTHERS. 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, 

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 

Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, 

Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, 

Upon the lore so voluble and deep, 
That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice 

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. 
Many such eves of gently whispering noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
What are this world's true joys, — ere the great voice, 

From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly. 

November i8. 1816. 



IX. 

Keen, fitful gusts are whispVing here and there 

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry ; 

The stars look very cold about the sky, 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel I httle of the cool bleak air, 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair: 
For I am brimfuU of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 



SONNE 7'S. 39 



X. 

To one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career. 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



/ XI. 

^ On first looking into Chap77ian''s Homer. 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 

Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



40 SONNETS. 

XII. 

On leaving some Friends at an early Hour. 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 

On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, 

Or hand of hymning a-ngel, when 'tis seen 

The silvery strings of heavenly harp atween : 
And let there glide by many a pearly car. 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, 

And half discovered wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears, 
And as it reaches each delicious ending, 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 

And full of many wonders of the spheres : 
For what a height my spirit is contending! 
'Tis not content so soon to be alone. 



XIII. 

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON. 

HiGHMiNDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, 

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, 
Dwells here and there with people of no name, 

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : 

And where we think the truth least understood, 
Oft may be found a " singleness of aim," 
That ought to frighten into hooded shame 

A money mong'ring, pitiable brood. 

How glorious this aifection for the cause 
Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly! 

What when a stout unbending champion awes 
Envy, and Malice to their native sty ? 

Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, 
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 



SONNETS. 41 

XIV. 

ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ; 

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, 

Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 
He of the rose, the violet, the spring. 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 

And lo! — whose stedfastness would never take 
A meaner sound than RaphaePs whispering. 
And other spirits there are standing apart 

Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 
These, these will give the world another heart, 

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
Of mighty workings ? 

Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 



U 



XV. 

Oil the Grasshopper and Cricket. 



The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights ; for when tired out with fun 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 
On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 

December op^ 1816. 



42 SONNETS. 

XVI. 

TO KOSCIUSKO. 

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 

The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, 
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing 

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. 

It tells me too, that on a happy day, 

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, 
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore 

Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 

To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
To where the great God lives for evermore. 



Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own ; 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent : 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, 
And half forget what world or worldling meant. 
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me, 

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, 
And float with them about the summer waters. 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 



" As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
" Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
" Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight 
" [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese 
" Than I, for 1 n'ad sicknesse nor disese." 

Chaucer. 

What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 
That stays one moment in an open flower, 
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 
In a green island, far from all men's knowing? 
More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? 
More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
More serene than Cordelia's countenance? 
More full of visions than a high romance ? 
What, but thee Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes ! 
Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 
Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses 
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise. 

But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 
Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ? 

43 



44 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more 

regal, 
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen 

eagle ? 
What is it? And to what shall I compare it? 
It has a glory, and nought else can share it : 
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 
Chacing away all worldliness and folly ; 
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder, 
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 
And sometimes like a gentle whispering 
Of all the secrets of some wondVous thing 
That breathes about us in the vacant air; 
So that we look around with prying stare. 
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning, 
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning ; 
To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, 
That is to crown our name when life is ended. 
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice. 
And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice ! 
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 
And die away in ardent mutterings. 

No one who once the glorious sun has seen, 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow : 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, 
By telling what he sees from native merit. 

O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven — Should I rather kneel 

Upon some mountain-top until I feel 

A glowing splendor round about me hung, 

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? 

O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 45 

Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, 

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 

The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo 

Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear 

The overwhelming sweets, ^twill bring me to the fair 

Visions of all places : a bowery nook 

Will be elysium — an eternal book 

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 

About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 

And many a verse from so strange influence 

That we must ever wonder how, and whence 

It came. Also imaginings will hover " 

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where Pd wander 

In happy silence, like the clear meander 

Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot. 

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness. 

Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 

Then the events of this wide world Pd seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze 

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 

Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; 
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan? 
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 
The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 



46 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 

A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, 

Riding the springy branches of an elm. 

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 

Myself in poesy ; so 1 may do the deed 

That my own soul has to itself decreed. 

Then I will pass the countries that I see 

In long perspective, and continually 

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass 

Of Flora, and old Pan : sleep in the grass, 

Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 

And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ; 

Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, 

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white 

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 

As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 

A lovely tale of human life we'll read. 

And one will teach a tame dove how it best 

May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; 

Another, bending o'er her nimble tread. 

Will set a green robe floating round her head, 

And still will dance with ever varied ease, 

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 

Another will entice me on, and on 

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? 

Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 

Where I may find the agonies, the strife 

Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar. 

O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a car 

And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : 

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 47 

Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with sprightly 

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ; 

And now I see them on a green-hilPs side 

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 

The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks 

To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 

Passing along before a dusky space 

Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 

Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep. 

Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep : 

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 

Some with their faces mufiiied to the ear 

Between their arms ; some, clear in youthful bloom, 

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 

Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 

Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 

The driver of those steeds is forward bent. 

And seems to listen : O that I might know 

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong. 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly- 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 



48 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 

Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all? 

From the clear space of ether, to the small 

Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the meaning 

Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening 

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, 

E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 

The fervid choif that lifted up a noise 

Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 

Its mighty self of convoluting sound. 

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 

Eternally around a dizzy void? 

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 

With honors ; nor had any other care 

Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair. 

Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a sc[h]ism 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 

Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 

Men were thought wise who could not understand 

His glories : with a puling infant's force 

They sway'd about upon a rocking horse, 

And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd! 

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolPd 

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 

Of summer nights collected still to make 

The morning precious : beauty was awake ! 

Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 

And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, 

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race! 

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, 

And did not know it, — no, they went about, 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 49 

Holding a poor, decrepid standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
The name of one Boileau ! 

O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallowed names, in this unholy place. 
So near those common folk ; did not their shames 
Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 
Delight you ? Did ye never cluster round 
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound. 
And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel grew? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 
Their youth away, and die ? Twas even so : 
But let me think away those times of woe : 
Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 
In many places ; — some has been upstirr'd 
From out its crystal dwelling in a lake. 
By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 
About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 
These things are doubtless : yet in truth we've had 
Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, 
From majesty : but in clear truth the themes 
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 
Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of power ; 
'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm. 
The very archings of her eye-lids charm 
A thousand willing agents to obey. 
And still she governs with the mildest sway : 



50 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

But strength alone though of the Muses born 

Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn, 

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 

Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs, 

And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 

Of poesy, that it should be a friend 

To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 

Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 
Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, 
Yeaned in after times, when we are flown, 
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
With simple flowers : let there nothing be 
More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 
Nought more ungentle than the placid look 
Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes 
Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes! 
As she was wont, th' imagination 
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
And they shall be accounted poet kings 
Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 
O may these joys be ripe before I die. 
Will not some say that I presumptuously 
Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
'Twere better far to hide my foolish face? 
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How! 
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
If I do fall, at least I will be laid 
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 51 

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; 

And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 

But off Despondence! miserable bane! 

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 

A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 

What though I am not wealthy in the dower 

Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man : though no great ministVing reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 

To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I've seen 

The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 

As anything most true ; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons — manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eye-lids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to think. 

Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 

Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil! 

How many days! what desperate turmoil! 

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 

Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, 

I could unsay those — no, impossible! 

Impossible! 

For sweet relief I'll dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay 
Begun in gentleness die so a'way. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 



52 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

I turn full hearted to the friendly aids 

That smooth the path of honor ; brotherhood, 

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 

The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 

Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 

The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; 

And when they're come, the very pleasant rout : 

The message certain to be done to-morrow. 

'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 

Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 

To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 

Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 

Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; 

Many delights of that glad day recalling. 

When first my senses caught their tender falling. 

And with these airs come forms of elegance 

Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 

Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 

Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift bound 

Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 

Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 

Thus I remember all the pleasan| flow 

Of words at opening a portfolio. 

Things such as these are ever harbingers 

To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 

Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : 

A linnet starting all about the bushes : 

A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted 

Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted 

With over pleasure — many, many more, 

Might I indulge at large in all my store 

Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 

Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 

For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 

I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 

Of friendly voices had just given place 

To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 

The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 




Sappho's meek head was there, half smiling 
doAA-n." 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 53 

It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 

Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung 

The glorious features of the bards who sung 

In other ages — cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame! 

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap 

And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap 

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 

Of liny marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sun-rise : two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child : , 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once more 

The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam 

Feel all about their undulating home. 

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down 
At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown 
Of over thinking had that moment gone 
From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes, 
As if he always listened to the sighs 
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's worn 
By horrid suifrance — mightily forlorn. 
Petrarch, outstepping from -the shady green, 
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean 



54 SLEEP AND POETRY. 

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they! 

For over them was seen a free display 

Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone 

The face of Poesy : from off her throne 

She overlooked things that I scarce could tell. 

The very sense of where I was might well 

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came 

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 

Within my breast ; so that the morning light 

Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 

And up I rose refreshed, and glad, and gay, 

Resolving to begin that very day 

These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 

I leave them as a father does his son. 



Jims. 



[Published i8i8] 



ENDYMION 

gi poetic l^omaitte. 



THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN ANTIQUE SONG.' 



INSCRIBED 

TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



PREFACE. 



Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem 
has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that 
I make it public. 

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who 
must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every 
error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accom- 
plished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel 
sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing 
the press ; nor should tliey if I thought a year's castigation 
would do them any good ; — it will not: the foundations are 
too sandy. . It is just that this youngster should die away : a 
sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is 
dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit 
to live. 

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve 
a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict 
it : he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not 
a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not 
written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of 
course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are 
competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the 
honor of English literature. 

The imagmation of a boy is healthv, and the mature imag- 
ination of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of life between, 
in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the 
way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted : thence pro- 
ceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those 
men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the follow- 
ing pages, 

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful 
mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness : for I wish to 
try once more, before I bid it farewell. 

Teignmouth, April lo, 1818. 
56 



ENDYMION, 



BOOK I. 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 

Its loveliness increases ; it will never 

Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and "quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season ; the mid forest brake. 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 

57 



58 ENDYMION. 



BOOK I. 



That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own vallies : so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now while the early budders are just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests ; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring horrie increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it half finished : but let Autumn bold, 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness : 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed 



BOOK I. END YM I ON. 59 

So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 

Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. 

And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, 

Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep 

A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, 

Never again saw he the happy pens 

Whither his brethren, bleating with content, 

Over the hills at every nightfall went. 

Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever. 

That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever 

From the white flock, but passed unworried 

By angry wolf, or pard with prying head. 

Until it came to some unfooted plains 

Where fed the herds of Pan : ay great his gains 

Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, 

Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, 

And ivy banks ; all leading pleasantly 

To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 

Stems thronging all around between the swell 

Of turf and slanting branches : who could tell 

The freshness of the space of heaven above, 

Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a 

dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 

Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 'twas the morn : Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
A melancholy spirit well might win 
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine 
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun ; 



6o END YM I ON. BOOK i. 

The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run 
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 
Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the mass 
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold, 
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. 

Now while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; 
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry 
Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath oi music, which ev'n then 
Fiird out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave 
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave. 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking 
Through copse-clad vallies, — ere their death, over- 
taking 
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last 
Into the wildest alley they all past. 
Making directly for the woodland altar. 
O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue faulter 
In telling of this goodly company. 
Of their old piety, and of their glee : 
Bat let a portion of ethereal dew 
Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
My soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring, ,^ 
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. 

Leading the way, young damsels danced along, 
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song ; 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. 6 1 

Each having a white wicker over brimm'd 

With April's tender 3'ounglings : next, well trimm'd, 

A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks 

As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 

Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, 

When the great deity, for earth too ripe, 

Let his divinity o'er-flowing die 

In music, through the vales of Thessaly : 

Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on tli# ground. 

And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 

With ebon-tipped flutes : close after these, 

Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 

A venerable priest full soberly. 

Begirt with ministring looks : alway his eye 

Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, 

And after him his sacred vestments swept. 

From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, 

Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light ; 

And in his left he held a basket full 

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull : 

Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 

Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 

His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, 

Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth 

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd 

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 

Their share of the ditty. After them appeared. 

Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd 

Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, 

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown : 

Who stood therein did seem of great renown 

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, 

Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 

And, for those simple times, his garments were 

A chieftain king's : beneath his breast, half bare, 

Was hung a silver bugle, and between 

His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen . 

A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd, 



62 ENDYMION, book i. 

To common lookers on, like one who dream'd 

Of idleness in groves Elysian : 

Bat there were some who feelingly could scan 

A lurking trouble in his nether lip, 

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 

Through his forgotten hands : then would they sigh. 

And think of yellow leav^es, of owlets cry, 

Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day, 

Why shoilkl our young Endymion pine away! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd. 
Stood silent round the shrine : each look was chang'd 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd their sons to silence ; while each cheek 
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. 
Endymion too, without a forest peer. 
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, 
Among his brothers of the mountain chase. 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, 
And, after lifting up his aged hands, 
Thus spake he : " Men of Latmos ! shepherd bands ! 
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks : 
Whether descended from beneath the rocks 
That overtop your mountains ; whether come 
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb ; 
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze 
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge 
Nibble their lill at ocean's very marge. 
Whose mellow reeds are touched with sounds forlorn 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare 
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air ; 
And all ye gentle girls who foster up 
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 
Will put choice honey for a favored youth : 
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth 
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. 63 

Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains 
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains 
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad 
Sickens our fearful ewes ; and we have had 
Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
The earth is glad : the merry lark has pour'd 
His early song against yon breezy sky. 
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heaped a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honor of the shepherd-god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant- pile, 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 

" O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 



" O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 



64 END YMION. book 

What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
Of thine enmossed reahns : O thou, to whom 
Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom 
Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
To sing for thee ; low creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness ; pent up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near. 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O forester divine! 



" Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping. 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
Hear us, O satyr king! 

" O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn. 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. 65 

Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
That come a swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors : 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dry ope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows! 



" Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven, 
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — but no more : w^e humbly screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
And giving out a shout most heaven rending, 
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean! " 



Even while they brought the burden to a close, 
A shout from the whole multitude arose. 
That lingered in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine. 
Young companies nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. 
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes forgotten — out of memory : 
Fair creatures ! whose young children's children bred 
Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead, 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
High genitors, unconscious did they cull 



66 ENDYMION. book i. 

Time's sweet first-fruits — they danc'd to weariness, 

And tlien in quiet circles did they press 

The hillock turf, and caught the latter end 

Of some strange history, potent to send 

A young mind from its bodily tenement. 

Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 

On either side ; pitying the sad death 

Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath 

Of Zephyr slew him. — Zephyr penitent, 

Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, 

Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 

The archers too, upon a wider plain, 

Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft, 

And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft 

Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, 

CalPd up a thousand thoughts to envelope 

Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling 

knee 
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, 
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young 
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, 
And very, very deadliness did nip 
Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood 
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd. 
Uplifting his strong bow into the air, 
Many might after brighter visions stare : 
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, 
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side. 
There shot a golden splendor far and wide. 
Spangling those million poutings of the brine 
With quivering ore : 'twas even an awful shine 
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow ; 
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating. 
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring 
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 
'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. 67 

Tlie silvery setting of their mortal star. 

There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 

That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; 

And what our duties there : to nightly call 

Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather ; 

To summon all the downiest clouds together 

For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 

In ministring the potent rule of fate 

With speed of fire-tailed exhalations ; 

To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 

Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 

A world of other unguess'd offices. 

Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, 

Into Elysium ; vieing to rehearse 

Each one his own anticipated bliss. 

One felt heart-certain that he could not. miss 

His quick gone love, among fair blossomed boughs. 

Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 

Her lips with music for the welcoming. 

Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring, 

To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, 

Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales : 

Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth 

wind, 
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind ; 
And, ever after, through those regions be 
His messenger, his little Mercury. 
Some were athirst in soul to see again 
Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign 
In times long past ; to sit with them, and talk 
Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 
Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 
Of happiness, to when upon the moors. 
Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, 
And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told 
Their fond imaginations, — saving him 
Whose eyelids curtained up their jewels dim, 
Endymion : yet hourly had he' striven 
To hide the cankering venom, that had riven 



68 END YMION. BOOK 

His fainting recollections. Now indeed 
His senses had swoon'd oiT: he did not heed 
The sudden silence, or the whispers low, 
Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 
Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, 
Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 
But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, 
Like one who on the earth had never stept. 
Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man, 
Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

Who whispers him so pantingly and close? 
Peona. his sweet sister: of all those. 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, 
And breathed a sister's' sorrow to persuade 
A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 
She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
Of happy, changes in emphatic dreams. 
Along a path between two little streams, — 
Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, 
From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow 
From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small ; 
Until they came to where these streamlets fall, 
With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, 
Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 
With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. 
A little shallop, floating there hard by, 
Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 
And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, 
And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, — 
Peona guiding, through the water straight. 
Towards a bowery island opposite ; 
Which gaining presently, she steered light 
Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, 
Where nested was an arbor, overwove 
By many a summer's silent fingering ; 
To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 
Her playmates, with their needle broidery. 
And minstrel memories of times gone by. 



BOOK I. END YMION. 69 

So she was gently glad to see him laid 
Under her favorite bower's quiet shade, 
On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
When last the sun his autumn tresses shook. 
And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips, 
And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips 
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
A patient watch over the stream that creeps 
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 
Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light. rustling 



O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, 
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfin'd 
Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves 
And moonlight ; aye, to all the mazy world 
Of silvery enchantment! — who, upfurPd 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
But renovates and lives? — Thus, in the bower, 
Endymion was calm'd to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, 
He said : " I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of May, 
As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt 
Of sisterly affection. Can I want 



70 ENDYMION. book i 

Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears? 

Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 

That, any longer, I will pass my days 

Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 

My voice upon the mountain-heights ; once more 

Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar : 

Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll 

Around the breathed boar : again Til poll 

The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow : 

And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, 

Again Til linger in a sloping mead 

To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 

Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet, 

And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat 

My soul to keep in its resolved course." 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. ''Twas a lay 
More subtle cadenced, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child ; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the damsePs hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd 
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw 
Endym ion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung the lute aside. 
And earnestly said : " Brother, 'tis vain to hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
Immortal, starry ; such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught 
Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, 



BOOK I. END YM I ON. ']! 

Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked hmbs among the alders green ; 
And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy face!" 

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand, 
And said, " Art thou so pale, who wast so bland 
And merry in our meadows? How is this? 
Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss! — 
Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 
Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange ? 
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise? 
Ambition is no sluggard : 'tis no prize, 
That toiling years would put within my grasp, 
That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
No man e'er panted for a mortal love. . 
So all have set my heavier grief above 
These things which happen. Rightly have they done : 
I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, 
Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
My spear aloft, as signal for the chace — 
I, who, for very sport of heart, would race 
With my own steed from Araby ; pluck down 
A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
A lion into growling, loth retire — 
To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire, 
And sink thus low! but I will ease my bi"east 
Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

" This river does not see the naked sky, 
Till it begins to progress silverly 
Around the western border of the wood, 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power, 



72 ENDYMION. BOOK i. 

And I could witness his most kingly hour, 

When he doth lighten up the golden reins, 

And paces leisurely down amber plains 

His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 

Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 

There blossomed suddenly a magic bed 

Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red : 

At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 

That but one night had wrought this flowery spell ; 

And, sitting down close by, began to muse 

What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus^ 

In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; 

Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 

Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, 

Had dipt his rod in it : such garland wealth 

Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, 

Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 

Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 

A breeze,, most softly lulling to my soul ; 

And shaping visions all about my sight 

Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 

The which became more strange, and strange, and 

dim, 
And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim : 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befel? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongLie, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendor pours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of heaven appeared to open for my flight, - 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward glance : 
So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. 73 

When, presently, the stars began to glide, 

And faint away, before my eager view : 

At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, 

And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge ; 

And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 

The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 

A shell for Neptune's goblet : she did soar 

So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 

Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 

Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 

At last into a dark and vapory tent — 

Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 

Of planets all were in the blue again. 

To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd 

My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 

By a bright something, sailing down apace, 

Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 

Again I looked, and, O ye deities, 

Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 

Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 

Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness? 

Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? 

Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun; 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun 

Such follying before thee — yet she had, 

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 

And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow ; 

The which were blended in, I know not how, 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes, 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 

And plays about its fancy, till the stings 

Of human neighborhood envenom all. 

Unto what awful power shall I call ? 

To what high fane? — Ah! see her hovering feet, 

More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whiteiy sweet 



74 END YMION. book i. 

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 

From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 

Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 

'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million 

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, 

Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, 

Handfuls of daisies. '^ — " Endymion, how strange! 

Dream within dream! " — " She took an airy range, 

And then, towards me, like a very maid, 

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid, 

And pressed me by the hand : Ah ! Hwas too much ; 

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 

Yet held my recollection, even as one 

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 

I felt upmounted in that region 

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth,- 

And eagles struggle with the buifeting north 

That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 

Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 

But lapp'd and lulPd along the dangerous sky. 

Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, 

And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 

Such as ay muster where grey time has scooped 

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 

There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd 

To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 

I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 

My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live. 

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 

Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count 

The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd 

A second self, that each might be redeemed 

And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. - 

Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to press 

Her very cheek against my crowned lip. 

And, at that moment, felt my body dip 

Into a warmer air : a moment more, 



BOOK I. END YMION. 75 

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 
Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 
A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells, 
Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 
And once, above the edges of our nest, 
An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 

'' Why did I dream that sleep o^er-power^d me 
In midst of all this heaven? Why not see, 
Far ofi> the shadows of his pinions dark, 
And stare them from me ? But no, like a spark 
That needs must die, although its little beam 
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
A careful moving caught my waking ears, 
And up I started : Ah ! my sighs, my tears, 
My clenched hands ; — for lo! the poppies hung 
Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
With leaden looks : the solitary breeze 
Blustered, and slept, and its wild self did teaze 
With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 
Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought 
Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus! — 
Away I wanderM — all the pleasant hues 
Of heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 
Were deepest dungeons ; heaths and sunny glades 
Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless rills 
Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturned gills 
Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown 
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown 
Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 
Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd 
In little journeys, I beheld in it 
A disguised demon, missioned to knit 
My soul with under darkness ; to entice 



76 END YM I ON. book i. 

My stumblings down some monstrous precipice : 
Therefore I eager followed, and did curse 
The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 
Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven! 
These things, with all their comfortings, are given 
To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 
Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
Of weary life." 

Thus ended he, and both 
Sat silent : for the maid was very loth 
To answer ; feeling well that breathed words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps, 
And wonders ; struggles to devise some blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say. Shame 
On this poor weakness I but, for all her strife, 
She could as soon have crushed away the life 
From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause. 
She said with trembling chance : " Is this the cause? 
This all ? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas ! 
That one who through this middle earth should pass 
Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
His name upon the harp-string, should achieve 
No higher bard than simple maidenhood. 
Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood 
Left his young cheek ; and how he used to stray 
He knew not where ; and how he would say, nay. 
If any said "'twas love : and yet 'twas love ; 
What could it be but love ? How a ring-dove 
Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path ; 
And how he died : and then, that love doth scathe, 
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses ; 
And then the ballad of his sad life closes- 
With sighs, and an alas! — Endymion! 
Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 
Among the winds at large — that all may hearken! 
Although, before the crystal heavens darken, 



BOOK I. END YM I ON. 77 

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 

Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, 

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands 

With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 

My pleasant days, because I could not mount 

Into those regions? The Morphean fount 

Of that fine element that visions, dreams, 

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams 

Into its airy channels with so subtle, 

So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle, 

Circled a million times within the space 

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, 

A tinting of its quality : how light 

Must dreams themselves be ; seeing they're more slight 

Than the mere nothing that engenders them! 

Then wherefore sully the encrusted gem 

Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? 

Why pierce high-fronted honor to the quick 

For nothing but a dream ? " Hereat the youth 

Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 

Was in his plaited brow : yet his eyelids 

Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids 

A little breeze to creep between the fans 

Of careless butterflies : amid his pains 

He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew. 

Full palatable ; and a color grew 

Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. 

"Peona! ever have I long'd to slake 
My thirst for the world's praises : nothing base. 
No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace 
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd — 
Though now 'tis tatter'd ; leaving my bark bar'd 
And sullenly drifting : yet my higher hope 
Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, 
To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 
Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks 



78 END YMION. BOOK i. 

Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 

A fellowship with essence ; till we shine, 

Full alchemized, and free of space. Behold 

The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 

A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness, 

And soothe thy lips : hist, when the airy stress 

Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, 

And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 

Eolian magic from their lucid wombs : 

Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs ; 

Old ditties sigh above their father's grave ; 

Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave 

Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot ; 

Bronze clarions awake, and faintiy bruit, 

Where long ago a giant battle was ; 

And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 

In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 

Feel we these things? — that moment have we stept 

Into a sort of oneness, and our state 

Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 

Richer entanglements, enthralments far 

More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, 

To the chief intensity : the crown of these 

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 

Upon the forehead of humanity. 

All its more ponderous and bulky worth 

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 

A steady splendor; but at the tip-top. 

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 

Of light, and that is love : its influence, 

Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, 

At which we start and fret ; till in the end, 

Melting into its radiance, we blend. 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, 



BOOK I. END YMION. 79 

That men, who might have tower'd in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, 

Have been content to let occasion die, 

Whilst they did sleep in love"s elysium. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benetits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, upperched high. 

And cloistered among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath. 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth : 

What I know not : but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would 

swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 
If human souls did never kiss and greet? 

" Now, if this earthly love has power to make 
Men's being mortal, immortal ; to shake 
Ambition from their memories, and brim 
Their measure of content ; what merest whim. 
Seems all this poor endeavor after fame. 
To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too. 
Look not so wilder'd ; for these things are true, 
And never can be born of atomies 
That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies. 
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure. 



8o END YMION. book i. 

My restless spirit never could endure 

To brood so long upon one luxury, 

Unless it did. though fearfully, espy 

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. 

My sayings will the less obscured seem, 

When I have told thee how my waking sight 

Has made me scruple whether that same night 

Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona! 

lieyond the matron-temple of Latona, 

Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, 

Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows 

Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 

And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, 

And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 

Past them, but he must brush on every side. 

Some mouldered steps lead into this cool cell, 

Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 

Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 

Ri^ht upward, through the bushes, to the sky. 

Oft have I brought thee flovv^ers. on their stalks set 

Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 

Edges them round, and they have golden pits : 

Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits 

In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, 

When all above was faint with mid-day heat. 

And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, 

rd bubble up the water through a reed ; 

So reaching back to boy-hood : make me ships 

Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, 

With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be 

Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, 

When love-lorn hours had left me less a child, 

I sat contemplating the figures wild 

Of o'er-hsad clouds melting the mirror through. 

Upon a dav, while thus I watch'd, by flew- 

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver ; 

So plainly charactered, no breeze would shiver 

The happy chance : so happy, I was fain 

To follow it upon the open plain. 



BOOK I. END YM I ON. 8 1 

And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! 

A wonder, fair as any I have told — 

The same bright face I tasted in my sleep. 

Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap 

Through the cool depth. — It moved as if to flee — 

I started up, when lo! refreshfully. 

There came upon my face, in plenteous showers. 

Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers, 

Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight, 

Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 

Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 

Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 

Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 

Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain 

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth 

On the deer''s tender haunches : late, and. loth, 

'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure. 

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 

Of weary days, made deeper exquisite. 

By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! 

Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still. 

Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill : 

And a whole age of lingering moments crept 

Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 

Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 

Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen ; 

Once more been tortured with renewed life. 

When last the wintry gusts gave over strife 

With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies 

Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes 

In pity of the shatter^ infant buds, — 

That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, 

My hunting cap, because I laughM and smiPd, 

Chatted with thee, and many days exiPd 

All torment from my breast ; — 'twas even then, 

Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den 

Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance 

From place to place, and following at chance, 

At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, 



82 END YM I ON. book i 

And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 

In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble 

Djwn twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, 

Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, 

Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave 

The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, — 

'iVIong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock 

Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 

Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread 

Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 

'Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?' 

Said I, low voic'd : 'Ah, whither! 'Tis the grot 

Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot. 

Doth her resign; and where her tender hands 

She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 

Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits. 

And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 

Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 

Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 

Of sadness. O that she would take my vows. 

And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, 

To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, 

D-iily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed. 

And weave them dyingly — send honey-whispers 

Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers 

May sigh my love unto her pitying! 

O charitable echo! hear, and sing 

This ditty to her! — tell her ' — so I stay'd 

My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 

Stood stupefied with my own empty folly. 

And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. 

Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name 

Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came : 

' Endymion! the cave is secreter 

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir 

No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise 

Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys 

And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' 

At that oppress'd I hurried in. — Ah! where 



BOOK I. ENDYMION. ^2> 

Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? 

ril smile no more, Peona ; nor will wed 

Sorrow the way to death ; but patiently 

Bear up against it : so farewel, sad sigh ; 

And come instead demurest meditation, 

To occupy me wholly, and to fashion 

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 

No more will I count over, link by link, 

My chain of grief: no longer strive to find 

A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 

Blustering about my ears : aye, thou shalt see. 

Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ; 

What a calm round of hours shall make my days. 

There is a paly flame of hope that plays 

Where'er I look : but yet. Til say 'tis naught — 

And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 

Already, a more healthy countenance? 

By this the sun is setting ; we may chance 

Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car." 



This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star 
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand : 
They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. 



ENDYMION. 



BOOK II. 

O SOVEREIGN power of love! O grief! O balm! 
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, 
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years : 
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 
Have become indolent ; but touching thine, 
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine. 
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. 
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, 
Stiif-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades. 
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all dimly fades 
Into some backward corner of the brain ; 
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! 
Swart planet in the universe of deeds! 
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 
Along the pebbled shore of memory! 
Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be 
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 
To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride. 
And golden keePd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. 
But wherefore this ? What care, though owl did fly 
About the great Athenian admiral's mast? 
What care, though striding Alexander past 
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? 
Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 
84 



BOOK II. END YMION, 85 

The glutted Cyclops, what care? — Juliet leaning 
Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 
Doth more avail than these : the silver flow 
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
Are things to brood on with more ardency 
Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 
Must such conviction come upon his head. 
Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, 
Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 
The path of love and poesy. But rest. 
In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear 
Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 
Love's standard on the battlements of song. 
So once more days and nights aid me along, 
Like legion'd soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd-prince, 
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since 
The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows 
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows ? 
Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days. 
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways : 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 
Of the lone woodcutter ; and listening still, 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill. 
Now he is sitting by a shady spring. 
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Stems the upbursting cold : a wild rose tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now 
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! 
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight ; 
And, in the middle, there is softly pight 
A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings 
There must be surely character'd strange things, 
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. 



S6 ENDYMION. book ii 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 
Followed by glad Endymion's clasped hands : 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands 
His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies 
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was ; 
And like a new-born spirit did he pass 
Through the green evening quiet in the sun, 
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams 
The summer time away. One track unseams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him ; then, anew, 
He sinks adown a solitary glen, 
Where there was never sound of mortal men, 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, 
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
Went swift beneath th2 merry-winged guide, 
Until it reached a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd 
Unto the temp2rate air: then high it soar'd, 
And, downward, suddenly began to dip, 
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip 
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch 
Even with mealy gold the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 
So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, 
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed 
Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue. 
What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest? 
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 
To him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
And anxiously began to plait and twist 




4 ^'" -^ 



" What gentle tongue, 
What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest ? '" 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. 87 

Her ringlets round her fingers, saying : " Youth ! 

Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, 

The bitterness of love : too long indeed, 

Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 

Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer 

All the bright riches of my crystal coffer 

To Amphitrite ; all my clear-eyed fish, 

Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, 

Vermilion-taiPd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; 

Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 

A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands 

Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands 

By my diligent springs ; my level lilies, shells, 

My charming rod, my potent river spells ; 

Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup 

Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up . 

To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 

But woe is me, I am but as a child 

To gladden thee ; and all I dare to say, 

Is, that I pity thee ; that on this day 

I've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far 

In other regions, past the scanty bar 

To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en 

From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 

Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 

Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above : 

But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel ! 

I have a ditty for my hollow cell." 

Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze. 
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : 
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool 
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, 
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, 
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr 
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down ; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 
Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps. 



58 ENDYMION. book 

Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encamps 

To take a fancied city of deHght, 

O what a wretch is he ! and when 'tis his, 

After long toil and travelling, to miss 

The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile : 

Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil ; 

Another city doth he set about, 

F^ree from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt 

That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : 

Alas, he finds them dry ; and then he foams, 

And onward to another city speeds. 

But this is human life : the war, the deeds, 

The disappointment, the anxiety, 

Imagination's struggles, far and nigh. 

All human ; bearing in themselves this good, 

That they are still the air, the subtle food. 

To make us feel existence, and to shew 

How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, 

Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, 

There is no depth to strike in : I can see 

Nought earthly worth my compassing ; so stand 

Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 

Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, 

When mad Eurydice is listening to 't ; 

I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, 

With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek. 

But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love. 

Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 

Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! 

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, 

Glance but one little beam of temper'd light 

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 

And tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd! 

Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spar'd, 

Would give a pang to jealous misery. 

Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie 

Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out 

My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout 

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,. 

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 



BOOK II. END YMION. 89 

Not to have dipped in love's most gentle stream. 

O be propitious, nor severely deem 

My madness impious ; for, by all the stars 

That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 

That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 

Am saihng with thee through the dizzy sky! 

How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! 

How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep 

Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, 

How lithe! When this thy chariot attains 

Its airy goal, haply some bower veils 

Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit fails — 

Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air 

Will gulph me — help ! '' — At this with madden'd 

stare, 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passioned moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swelPd it forth : " De- 
scend, 
Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurPd 
As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been 
A Httle lower than the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep profound 
As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead : so through the hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! " 

He heard but the last words, nor could contend 
One moment in reflection : for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. 



90 END YMION, book i: 

'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness ; 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, 
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, 
But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; 
A dusky empire and its diadems ; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold. 
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, 
With all its lines abrupt and angular : 
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star. 
Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof. 
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof 
Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss, 
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
F'ancy into belief: anon it leads 
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds 
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
Whether to silver grots, or giant range 
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge 
Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 
Towers like an ocean-clifif, and whence he seeth 
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb 
His bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
Old darkness from his throne : 'twas like the sun 
Uprisen o'er chaos : and with such a stun 
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it. 
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit 
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 
Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close, 
Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? 
The mighty ones who have made eternal day 
For Greece and England. While astonishment 
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went 
Into a marble gallery, passing through 
A mimic temple, so complete and true 



i 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. 91 

In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd 

To search it inwards ; whence far off appeared, 

Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 

And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 

A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully. 

The youth approached ; oft turning his veiPd eye 

Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old. 

And when, more near against the marble cold 

He had touched his forehead, he began to thread 

All courts and passages, where silence dead 

Rous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint : 

And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint 

Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 

Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 

Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim 

To wild uncertainty and shadows grim,.. 

There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before, 

And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore 

The journey homeward to habitual self ! 

A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf. 

Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar, 

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, 

Into the bosom of a hated thing. 

What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught 
The goal of consciousness 1 Ah, 'tis the thought. 
The deadly feel of solitude : for lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 
In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd. 
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west. 
Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest 
Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 
But far from such companionship to wear 
An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, 
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? 
"No! " exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here? " 



92 ENDYMIOiV. book 

No! loudly echoed times innumerable. 

At which he straightway started, and -gan tell 

His paces back into the temple's chief; 

Warming and growing strong in the belief 

Of help from Dian : so that when again 

He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, 

Moving more near the while. " O Haunter chaste 

Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, 

Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 

Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen, 

What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? 

Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 

Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what dark tree 

Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoever it be, 

'Tis in the breath of heaven : thou dost taste 

Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste 

Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; 

But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, 

There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 

It feels Elysian, how rich to me, 

An exiPd mortal, sounds its pleasant name! 

Within my breast there lives a choking flame — 

O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs! 

A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 

O let me slake it at the running springs! 

Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 

O let me once more hear the linnet's note! 

Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float — 

O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light! 

Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? 

O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! 

Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? 

O think how this dry palate would rejoice! 

If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice. 

Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers! — 

Young goddess! let me see my native bowers! 

Deliver me from this rapacious deep! " 

Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap 
His destinv. alert he stood : but when 



I 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. 93 

Obstinate silence came heavily again, 

Feeling about for its old couch of space 

And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face 

Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. 

But 'twas not long ; for, sweeter than the rill 

To its old channel, or a swollen tide 

To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied. 

And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns 

Up heaping through the slab : refreshment drowns 

Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 

Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride 

In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 

Before his footsteps ; as when heav'd anew 

Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, 

Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all hoar, 

Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense. 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes ; 
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
One moment with his hand among the sweets : 
Onw^ard he goes — he stops — his bosom beats 
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
Of which the throbs were born." This still alarm, 
This sleepy music, forc'd him w-alk tiptoe : 
For it came more softly than the east could blow 
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles 
Of thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyre 
To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 

O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
Who lov'd — and music slew not? 'Tis the pest 
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest ; 
That things of delicate and tenderest worth 
Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, 
By one consuming flame : it doth immerse 
And suff"ocate true blessings in a curse. 
Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, 



94 ENDYMION. BOOK 11. 

Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this 
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear ; 
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, 
Vanished in elemental passion. ^, 

And down some swart abysm he had gone, 
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led 
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head 
Brushing, awakened : then the sounds again 
Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 
Over a bower, where little space he stood ; 
F'or as the sunset peeps into a wood 
So saw he panting light, and towards it went 
Through winding alleys ; and lo, wonderment! 
Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. 

After a thousand mazes overgone. 
At last, with sudden step, he came upon 
A chamiber, myrtle walPd, embowered high, 
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy. 
And more of beautiful and strange beside : 
For on a silken couch of rosy pride. 
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth. 
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach : 
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach. 
Or ripe October's faded marigolds, 
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve 
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve 
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 
But rather, giving them to the filled sight 
Officiously. Sideway his face repos'd 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd, - 
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth 
To slumbery pout ; just as the morning south 
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, 
Four lily stalks did their white honors wed 



BOOK II. END YM I ON. 95 

To make a coronal ; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 
Together intertwine and trammePd fresh : 
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, 
Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, 
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 
And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, 
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings. 
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; 
And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
At the youth's slumber; while another took 
A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew. 
And shook it on his hair ; another flew " 
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise 
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 

At these enchantments, and yet many more. 
The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er; 
Until, impatient in embarrassment, 
He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went 
To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway. 
Smiling, thus whisper'd : " Though from upper day 
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here 
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! 
For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor. 
When some ethereal and high-favoring donor 
Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ; 
As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
Was I in no wise startled. So recline 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, 
Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager. 
So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears, 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona : here is cream, 



96 ENDYMION. BOOK II. 

Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 

Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimmM 

F'or the boy Jupiter : and here, undimni'd 

By any touch, a buncli of blooming plums 

Ready to melt between an infant's gums : 

And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees, 

In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 

Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know 

Of all these things around us." He did so, 

Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; 

And thus : " I need not any hearing tire 

By telling how the sea-born goddess pin'd 

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind 

Him all in all unto her doting self. 

Who would not be so prisoned ? but, fond elf, 

He was content to let her amorous plea 

Faint through his careless arms ; content to see 

An unseized heaven dying at his feet ; 

Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat. 

When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, 

Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born 

Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes 

Wei^ clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs 

Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. 

Hush! no exclaim — yet, justly mightst thou call 

Curses upon his head. — I was half glad. 

But my poor mistress went distract and mad, 

When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew 

To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew 

Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard ; 

Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd 

Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he, 

That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 

Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 

Aye, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep 

Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower 

HeaPd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, 

Medicmed death to a lengthened drowsiness : 

The which she fills with visions, and doth dress 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. 97 

In all this quiet luxury ; and hath set 
Us young immortals, without any let, 
To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd, 
Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 
She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 
The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 
Embowered sports in Cytherea's isle. 
Look! how those winged listeners all this while 
Stand anxious : see! behold!" — This clamant word 
Broke through the carefi.il silence ; lor they heard 
A rustling noise of leaves, and out there fluttered 
Pigeons and doves : Adonis something muttered, 
The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh 
Lay dormant, mov'd convulsM and gradually 
Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 
Of sudden voices, echoing, " Come! come! 
Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth Walk'd 
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 
Full soothingly to every nested finch : 
Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinch 
To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin! " 
At this, from every side they hurried in. 
Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 
And doubling overhead their little fists 
In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 
For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 
In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair, 
So from the arbor roof down swelPd an air 
Odorous and enlivening ; making all 
To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 
For their sweet cjueen : when lo ! the wreathed green 
Disparted, and far upward could be seen 
Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne. 
Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, 
Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling chill 
On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 
Nestle and turn uneasily about. 

Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd 
out, 



9^ ENDYMION. book ii. 

And silken traces lightened in descent ; 

And soon, returning from love's banishment, 

Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd : 

Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charmed 

A tumult to his heart, and a new life 

Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife. 

Bat for her comforting! unhappy sight, 

Bat meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write 

Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse 

To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. 

O it has ruffled every spirit there, 
Saving love's self, who stands superb to share 
The general gladness : awfully he stands ; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands ; 
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
What themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 
There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes : 
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. 
Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
The burning prayer within him ; so, bent low, 
He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
But Venus, bending forward, said : " My child, 
Favor this gentle youth ; his days are wild 
With love — he — but alas! too well I see 
Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 
Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true, 
That when through heavy hours I used to me 
The endless sleep of this new-born Adon' 
This stranger ay I pitied. For upon 
A dreary morning once I fled away 
Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 
For this my love : for vexing Mars had teaz'd 
Me even to tears : thence, when a little eas'd, 
Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 
I saw this youth as he despairing stood : 



BOOK II. END YMION. 99 

Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind : 
Those same full fringed lids a constant blind 
Over his sullen eyes : I saw him throw 
Himself on withered leaves, even as though 
Death had come sudden ; for no jot he mov'd, 
Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he lov'd 
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 
Had zoned her through the night. There is no 

trace 
Of this in heaven : I have mark'd each cheek, 
And find it is the vainest thing to seek ; 
And that of all things 'tis kept secretest. 
Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest : 
So still obey the guiding hand that fends 
Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 
'Tis a concealment needful in extreme ; ■ 
And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam 
Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu! 
Here must we leave thee." — At these words up 

flew 
The impatient doves, up rose the floating car, 
Up went the hum celestial. High afar 
The Latmian saw them minish into nought ; 
And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught 
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 
When all was darkened, with Etnean throe 
The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 
And left him once again in twilight lone. 

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast. 
For all those visions were o'ergone, and past. 
And he in loneliness : he felt assured 
Of happy times, when all he had endur'd 
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore. 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor, 
Black polished porticos of awful shade. 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, 



lOO ENDYMION. book i 

Leading afar past wild magnificence, 
Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o^er 
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar. 
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; 
Then heightened just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash 
The waters with his spear ; but at the splash, 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose 
His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round 
Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound. 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells 
On this delight ; for, every minute's space. 
The streams with changed magic interlace : 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 
Covered with crystal vines ; then weeping trees, 
Moving about as in a gentle wind. 
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd, 
Pour'd into shapes of curtained canopies, 
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries 
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 
Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; 
And then the water, into stubborn streams 
Collecting, mimicked the wrought oaken beams, 
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof. 
Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
Cathedrals calPd. He bade a loth farewel 
To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell. 
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes. 
Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes, 
Blackening on every side, and overhead 
A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 
With starlight gems : aye, all so huge and strange, 
The solitary felt a hurried change 
Working within him into something dreary, — 
Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 
And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds. 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. loi 

But he revives at once : for who beholds 
New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? 
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, 
Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown 
About her majesty, and front death-pale. 
With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale 
The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws. 
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away 
In another gloomy arch. 

Wherefore delay, 
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace 
The diamond path ? And does it indeed end 
Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend 
Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn; 
Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; 
To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost 
Towards him a large eagle, Hwixt whose wings, 
Without one impious word, himself he flings, 
Committed to the darkness and the gloom : 
Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom. 
Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell 
Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel. 
And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd. 
Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'd 
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem/d 
Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem'd 
With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 
The eagle landed him, and farewel took. 

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 
With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 



102 ENDYMION. BOOK II. 

Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 

Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 

Silence was music from the holy spheres ; 

A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; 

The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 

And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 

He wandered through, oft wondering at such swell 

Of sudden exaltation : but, " Alas ! '' 

Said he, 'Svill all this gush of feeling pass 

Away in solitude ? And must they wane, 

Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 

Without an echo? Then shall I be left 

So sad, so melancholy, so bereft! 

Yet still I feel immortal! O my love. 

My breath of life, where art thou? High above, 

Dancing before the morning gates of heaven? 

Or keeping watch among those starry seven. 

Old Atlas' children? Art a maid of the waters. 

One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters? 

Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian's, 

Weaving a coronal of tender scions 

For very idleness? Where'er thou art, 

Methinks it now is at my will to start 

Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train, 

And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main 

To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 

From thy sea-foamy cradle ; or to doflf 

Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves. 

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 

Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 

O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee 

To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile! 

Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foil 

For some few hours the coming solitude." 

Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued 
With power to dream deliciously ; so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 



BOOK II. END YM ION. 103 

He threw himself, and just into the air 

Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! 

A naked waist : " Fair Cupid, whence is this ? " 

A well-known voice sigh'd, " Sweetest, here am I ! " 

At which soft ravishment, with doating cry 

They trembled to each other. — Helicon! 

O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon! 

That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er 

These sorry pages ; then the verse would soar 

And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 

Over his nested young : but all is dark 

Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 

Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count 

Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 

Is folded by the Muses ; the bright roll 

Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes 

Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : 

The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, 

Although the sun of poesy is set, 

These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 

That there is no old power left to steep 

A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 

Long time in silence did their anxious fears 

Question that thus it was ; long time they lay 

Fondling and kissing every doubt away ; 

Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 

To mellow into words, and then there ran 

Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. 

"O known Unknown! from whom my being sips 

Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 

Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot 

Pillow my chin for ever? ever press 

These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? 

Why not for ever and for ever feel 

That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt steal 

Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 

Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 

My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! 

Is — is it to be so? No! Who will dare 



I04 ENDYMION. book ii. 

To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will, 
Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still 
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
How can we part? Elysium! who art thou? 
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here, 
Or lift me with thee to some starr)^ sphere? 
Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft completion of thy face. 
Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, 
And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine. 

The passion '' " O lov'd Ida the divine! 

Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me! 

His soul will 'scape us — O felicity! 

How he does love me^ His poor temples beat 

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet. 

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ; 

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 

In tranced dulness ; speak, and let that spell 

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell 

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 

My lips to thine, that they may richly feast 

Until we taste the life of love again. 

What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! Opain! 

I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; 

And so long absence from thee doth bereave 

My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : 

Yet, can I not to starry eminence 

Uplift thee ; nor for very shame can own 

Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan 

Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 

And I must blush in heaven. O that I 

Had done it already ; that the dreadful smiles 

At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, 

Had waned from Olympus' solemn height. 

And from all serious Gods ; that our delight 

Was quite forgotten, save of us alone! 

And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone 

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : 



BOOK II. ENDYMION. 105 

Yet must I be a coward! — Horror rushes 
Too palpable before me — the sad look 
Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook 
With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 
In reverence veiled — my crystaline dominion 
Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! 
But what is this to love ? O I could fly 
With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, 
So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, 
Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once 
That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 
Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown — 

I do think that I have been alone 

In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, 
While every eve saw me my hair uptying 
With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love, 

1 was as vague as solitary dove, 

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — 

Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, 

An immortality of passion's thine : 

Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 

Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; 

And I will tell thee stories of the sky. 

And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 

My happy love will overwing all bounds ! 

O let me melt into thee ; let the sounds 

Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 

Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth 

Of human words! roughness of mortal speech! 

Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach 

Thine honied tongue — lute-breathings, which I gasp 

To have thee understand, now while I clasp 

Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd, 

Endymion : woe! woe! is grief contain'd 

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?" — 

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 

Melted into a languor. He returned 

Entranced vows and tears. 



io6 END YM I ON. book ii. 

Ye who have yearnM 
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, 
For the mere sake of truth ; as 'tis a ditty 
Not of these days, but long ago 'twas told 
By a cavern wind unto a forest old.; 
And then the forest told it in a dream 
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam 
A poet caught as he was journeying 
To Phoebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 
His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
And after, straight in that inspired place 
He sang the story up into the air, 
Giving it universal freedom. There 
Has it been ever sounding for those ears 
Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers 
Yon centinel stars ; and he who listens to it 
Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it : 
For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, 
Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
Should be engulphed in the eddying wind. 
As much as here is penn'd doth always find 
A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain ; 
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 
And 'tis but echo'd from departing sound, 
That the fair visitant at last unwound 
Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — 
Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

Now turn we to our former chroniclers. — 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'd 
How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd 
His empty arms together, hung his head, 
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had known : 
Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Moanings had burst from him ; but now that rage 
Had pass'd away : no longer did he wage 
A rough-voic'd war against the dooming stars. 



BOOK II. END Y MI ON. . 107 

No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars : 

The lyre^of his soul Eolian tun'd 

Forgot all violence, and but commun'd 

With melancholy thought : O he had swoonM 

Drunken from pleasure's nipple ; and his love 

Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 

From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 

'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid 

In muffling hands. So tempered, out he strayed 

Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd 

Alecto's serpents ; ravishments more keen 

Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean 

Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last 

It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 

O'er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls, 

And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls, 

Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 

In which whales arbor close, to brood and sulk 

Against an endless storm. Moreover too, 

Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, 

Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder 

Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 

On all his life : his youth, up to the day 

When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, 

He stept upon his shepherd throne : the look 

Of his white palace in wild forest nook. 

And all the revels he had lorded there : 

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair. 

With every friend and fellow-woodlander — 

Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur 

Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans 

To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans : 

That wondrous night : the great Pan-festival : 

His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all. 

Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd : 

Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd 

High with excessive love. "And now," thought he, 

"How long must I remain in jeopardy 

Of blank amazements that amaze no more ? 



lo8 END Y MI ON. boo 

Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core 
All other depths are shallow : essences. 
Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, 
Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, 
And make my branches lift a golden fruit 
Into the bloom of heaven : other light, 
Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight 
The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, 
Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark! 
My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells 
Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells 
Of noises far away ? — list ! '"' — Hereupon 
Ha kept an anxious ear. The humming tone 
Came louder, and behold, there as he lay. 
On either side outgush'd, with misty spray, 
A copious spring ; and both together dash'd 
Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd 
Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot. 
Leaving; a trickling dew. At last they shot 
Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise 
As of some breathless racers whose hopes poize 
Upon the last few steps, and with spent force 
Along the ground they took a winding course. 
Endymion followed — for it seem'd that one 
Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — 
Followed their languid mazes, till well nigh 
He had left thinking of the mystery, — 
And was now rapt in tender hoverings 
Ov^er the vanish^ bliss. Ah! what is it sings 
His dream away? What melodies are these? 
They sound as through the whispering of trees, 
Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear! 

''O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why, 
Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, 
Circling about her waist, and striving how 
To entice her to a dive! then stealing in 



BOOK II. END YAH ON. 109 

Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 

that her shining hair was in the sun, 
And I distilling from it thence to run 

In amorous rillets down her shrinking form! 

To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 

Between her kissing breasts, and every charm 

Touch raptur'd! — See how painfully I flow : 

Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 

Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, 

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 

Where all that beauty snar'd me.'" — " Cruel god, 

Desist! or my offended mistress' nod 

Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not 

With syren words — Ah, have I really got 

Such power to madden thee? And is it true — 

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 

My very thoughts : in mercy then away, 

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 

My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane." — 

"O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a pain 

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn 

And be a criminal." — "Alas, I burn, 

1 shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 
Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense 

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. 

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, 

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave ; 

But ever since I heedlessly did lave 

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 

Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so, 

And call it love? Alas, 'twas cmelty. 

Not once more did I close my happy eyes 

Amid the thmsh's song. Away! Avaunt! 

O 'twas a cruel thing." — " Now thou dost taunt 

So softly, Arethusa, that I think 

If thou wast playing on my shady brink, 

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid! 

Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 

Of angry powers : there are deities 



no END YM ION. book ii. 

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 

'Tis almost death to hear : O let me pour 

A dewy balm upon them! — fear no more, 

Sweet Arethusa! Dian's self must feel 

Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal 

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 

These dreary caverns for the open sky. 

I will delight thee all my winding course, 

From the green sea up to my hidden source 

About Arcadian forests ; and will shew 

The channels where my coolest waters flow 

Through mossy rocks ; where, 'mid exuberant green, 

I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 

Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim 

Round flowery islands,- and take thence a skim 

Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 

Buzz from their honied wings : and thou shouldst 

please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might 
Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. 
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, 
And let us be thus comforted ; unless 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream 
Hurry distracted from SoPs temperate beam, 
And pour to death along some hungry sands." — 
"What can I do, Alpheus? Dian stands 
Severe before me : persecuting fate! 
Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late 
A huntress free in " — At this, sudden fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. 
The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more, 
Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
Of that dark gulph he wept, and said : " I urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage. 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, 
If thou art powerful, these lovers pains ; 
And make them happy in some happy plains." 



BOOK II. END YMION. ill 

He turned — there was a whelming sound — he stept, 
There was a cooler light ; and so he kept 
Towards it by a sandy path, and lo! 
More suddenly than doth a moment go, 
The visions of the earth were gone and fled— - 
He saw the giant sea above his head. 



E N D Y M I O N. 



BOOK III. 

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men 

With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen 

Their baaing vanities, to browse away 

The comfortable green and juicy hay 

From human pastures ; or, O torturing fact ! 

Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpacked 

Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 

Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge 

Of sanctuary splendor, not a sight 

Able to face an owPs, they still are dight 

By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, 

And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, 

Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount 

To their spirit's perch, their being's high account. 

Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones — 

Amid the fierce intoxicating tones 

Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabor'd drums. 

And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums, 

In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — 

Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon, 

And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — 

Are then regalities all gilded masks ? 

No, there are throned seats unscalable 

But by a patient wing, a constant spell, 

Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd. 

Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, 

And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. II3 

To watch the abysm-birth of elements. 

Aye, 'bove the withering of old-Hpp'd Fate 

A thousand Powers keep rehgious state, 

In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; 

And, silent as a consecrated urn. 

Hold sphery sessions for a season due. 

Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! 

Have bared their operations to this globe — 

Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 

Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence 

Shakes hand with our own Ceres ; every sense 

Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, 

As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 

■•Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 

Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair 

Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 

When thy gold breath is misting in the west, 

She unobserved steals unto her throne, 

And there she sits most meek and most alone ; 

As if she had not pomp subservient ; 

As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent 

Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ; 

As if the ministring stars kept not apart. 

Waiting for silver-footed messages. 

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : 

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 

The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 

Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip 

Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, 

Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 

Innumerable mountains rise, and rise. 

Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 

And yet thy benediction passeth not 

One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 

Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren 

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken. 

And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 

Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 



114 ENDYMION. BOOK III. 

To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
Within its pearly house. — The mighty deeps, 
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea! 
O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, 
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. 

Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail 
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh ? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye. 
Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! 
How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe! 
She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness 
Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there's a stress 
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, 
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
The curly foam with amorous influence. 
O, not so idle : for down-glancing thence 
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 
O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out 
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and frightening 
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. 
Where will the splendor be content to reach? 
O love! how potent hast thou been to teach 
Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty dwells, 
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells. 
In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, 
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. 
Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath ; 
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; 
Thou madest Pluto bear thin element ; 
And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent 
A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world, 
To find Endymion. 

On gold sand impearl'd 
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 115 

Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light 
Against his pallid face : he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood : 'twas very sweet ; he stayed 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, 
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, 
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. 
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand 
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd 
Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came 
Meekly through billows : — when like taper-flame 
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air. 
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 
Along his fated way. 

Far had he roam'd, 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd 
Above, around, and at his feet ; save things 
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : 
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large 
Of gone sea-warriors ; brazen beaks and targe ; 
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 
The sway of human hand ; gold vase emboss'd 
With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
But those of Saturn's vintage ; mouldering scrolls, 
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 
Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude 
In ponderous stone, developing the mood 
Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man, 
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, 
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 
These secrets struck into him ; and unless 
Dian had chaced away that heaviness, 
He might have died : but now, with cheered feel, 
He onward kept ; wooing these thoughts to steal 
About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 



1 1 6 END YMION. book hi. 

"What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst 
move 
My heart so potently? When yet a child 
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiPd. 
Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 
From eve to morn across the firmament. 
No apples would I gather from the tree, 
Till thou hadst cooPd their cheeks deliciously : 
No tumbling water ever spake romance, 
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance : 
No woods were green enough, no bower divine, 
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine : 
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, 
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 
And, in the summer tide of blossoming, 
No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing 
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 
No melody was like a passing spright 
If it went not to solemnize thy reign. 
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 
By thee were fashioned to the self-same end ; 
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend 
With all my ardors : thou wast the deep glen ; 
Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — 
The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun; 
Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; 
Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed — 
My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed : — 
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! 
O what a wild and harmonized tune 
My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull 
Myself to immortality : I prest 
Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 
But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss — 
My strange love came — Felicity's abyss! 
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — 
Yet not entirely ; no, thy starry sway 
Has been an under-passion to this hour. 



BOOK III. END YMION. 117 

Now I begin to feel thine orby power 

Is coming fresh upon me : O be kind, 

Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 

My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive 

That I can think away from thee and live! — 

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! 

How far beyond! " At this a surprised start 

Frosted the springing verdure of his heart ; 

For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 

How his own goddess was past all things fair, 

He saw far in the concave green of the sea 

An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, 

And his white hair was awful, and a mat 

Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet ; 

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 

A cloak of blue wrapped up his aged bones, 

O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans 

Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form 

Was woven in with black distinctness ; storm. 

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 

Were emblemed in the woof; with every shape 

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. 

The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell. 

Yet look upon it, and Hwould size and swell 

To its huge self; and the minutest fish 

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, 

And show his little eye's anatomy. 

Then there was pictur'd the regality 

Of Neptune ; and the sea nymphs round his state, 

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, 

And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd 

So stedfastly, that the new denizen 

Had time to keep him in amazed ken. 

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. 

The old man raised his hoary head and saw 
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see, 



1 1 8 END YMION. BOOK iir. 

His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 

He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white brows 

Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs 

Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, 

Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, 

Till round his withered lips had gone a smile. 

Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 

Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, 

Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 

Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, 

Even to the trees. He rose : he grasp'd his stole. 

With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 

And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd 

Echo into oblivion, he said : — 

"Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow : now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. 
O Jove \ I shall be young again, be young ! 

shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung 
With new-born life! What shall I do.^* Where go, 
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe.^ — 

ril swim to the syrens, and one moment listen 

Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten ; 

Anon upon that giant's arm Til be. 

That writhes about the roots of Sicily : 

To northern seas Til in a twinkling sail, 

And mount upon the snortings of a whale 

To some black cloud ; thence down Pll madly sweep 

On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, 

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurPd 

With rapture to the other side of the world! 

O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three, 

1 bow full hearted to your old decree! 

Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign, 
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. 
Thou art the man! " Endymion started back 
DismayM ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack 
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 



BOOK III. ENDYMION, 119 

Mutter'd : " What lonely death am I to die 

In this cold region? Will he let me freeze, 

And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 

Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 

And leave a black memorial on the sand? 

Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw, 

And keep me as a chosen food to draw 

His magian fish through hated fire and flame? 

O misery of hell ! resistless, tame, 

Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout, 

Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! — 

Tartarus! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves : 

Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves 

Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, , 

But never may be garner'd. I must stoop 

My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, fare- 

wel!' 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 
Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind 
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind 

1 see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man ! " 

He spake, and walking to that aged form, 
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm 
With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature wept. 
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears. 
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 
About his large dark locks, and faultering spake : 

" Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake! 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 



I20 ENDYMION. book ill. 

A very brother's yearning for thee steal 

I nto mine own : for why ? thou openest 

The prison gates that have so long opprest 

My weary watching. Though thou know^'st it not, 

Thou art commission^ to this fated spot 

For great enfranchisement. O weep no more ; 

I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 

Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power 

I had been grieving at this joyous hour 

But even now most miserable old, 

I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 

Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case 

Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays 

As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, 

For thou shalt hear this secret all displayed, 

Now as we speed towards our joyous task." 

So saying, this young soul in age's mask 
Went forward with the Carian side by side : 
Resuming quickly thus ; while ocean's tide 
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewei'd sands 
Took silently their foot-prints. 

" My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality, 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main. 
And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay ; 
Rough billows were my home by night and day, — 
The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 
No housing from the storm and tempests mad. 
But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : 
Long years of misery have told me so. 
Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
To look so plainly through them? to dispel 
A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? 



BOOK III. END YMION. 1 2 

To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, 
And one's own image from the bottom peep? 
Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
My long captivity and moanings all 
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum, 
The which I breathe away, and thronging come 
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. 

" I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, 
And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen 
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, 
Nor be my desolation ; and, full oft, 
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft 
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe 
My life away like a vast sponge of fate, 
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, 
Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down, 
And left me tossing safely. But the crown 
Of all my life was utmost quietude : 
More did I love to lie in cavern rude. 
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, 
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice! 
There blush'd no summer eve but 1 would steer 
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep. 
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep : 
And never was a day of summer shine, 
But I beheld its birth upon the brine : 
For I would watch all night to see unfold 
Heaven's gates, and vEthon snort his morning gold 
Wide o'er the swelling streams : and constantly 
At brim of day-tide, on some. grassy lea. 
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 



1 2 2 END YMION. BOOK 1 1 1. 

The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 
With daily boon of fish most delicate : 
They knevv not whence this bounty, and elate 
Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. 

"Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach 
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian! 
Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began 
To feel distempered longings : to desire 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Could grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremest fit 
I plung'd for life or death. To interknit 
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, 
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt 
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; 
P'orgetful utterly of self-intent ; 
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 
Then, like a new-fledg'd bird that first doth shew 
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 
I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 
'Twas freedom ! and at once I visited 
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 
No need to tell thee of them, for I see 
That thou hast been a witness — it must be 
For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, 
By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 
So I will in my story straightway pass 
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! 
That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair! 
Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 
To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth! 
I iov'd her to the very white of truth. 
And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! 
She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing. 
Round every isle, and point, and promontory. 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 123 

From where large Hercules wound up his story 

Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 

The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 

Gleam delicately through the azure clear : 

Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear ; 

And in that agony, across my grief 

It flashed, that Circe might find some relief — 

Cruel enchantress! So above the water 

I reared my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. 

^aea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 

It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 

Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

" When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower ; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, 
Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. 
How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre, 
And over it a sighing voice expire. 
It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon 
The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove! 
"With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove 
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all 
The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall 
The dew of her rich speech : ' Ah ! Art awake? 

let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 

1 am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed 
An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead ; 
And now I find thee living, I will pour 

From these devoted eyes their silver store, 

Until exhausted of the latest drop. 

So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop 

Here, that I too may live : but if beyond 

Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond 

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 

If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream ; 

If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardor mute, 

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, 

O let me pluck it for thee.' Thus she link'd 



124 ENDYMION. book iii. 

Her charming syllables, till indistinct 
Tlieir music came to my o'er-sweetenM soul ; 
And then she hoverM over me, and stole 
So near, that if no nearer it had been 
This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 

" Young man of Latmos! thus particular 
Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far 
This fierce temptation went : and thou may'st not 
Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot? 

" Who could resist? Who in this universe? 
She did so breathe ambrosia ; so immerse 
My fine existence in a golden clime. 
She took me like a child of suckling time. 
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemned, 
The current of my former life was stemm'd, 
And to this arbitrary queen of sense 
I bow'd a tranced vassal : nor would thence 
Have movM, even though Amphion^s harp had wooM 
Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
P^or as Apollo each eve doth devise 
A new appareling for western skies ; 
So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour 
Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. 
And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; 
Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer. 
And birds from coverts innermost and drear 
Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — 
To me new born delights! 

" Now let me borrow, 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell 
How specious heaven was changed to real hell. 

" One morn she left me sleeping : half awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 125 

My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts ; 

But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 

Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, 

That out I ran and searched the forest o'er. 

Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom 

Damp awe assaiPd me ; for there 'gan to boom 

A sound of moan, an agony of sound, 

Sepulchral from the distance all around. 

Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled 

That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled 

Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. 

I came to a dark valley. — Groanings sw^ell'd 

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew. 

The nearer I approached a flame's gaunt blue, 

That glar'd before me through a thorny brake. 

This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, , 

Bewitch'd me towards ; and I soon was near 

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear : 

In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene — 

The banquet of my arms, my arbor queen, 

Seated upon an uptorn forest root ; 

And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, 

Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting, 

Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting! 

O such deformities! Old Charon's self. 

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 

And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 

It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan, 

And tyrannizing was the lady's look. 

As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 

Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out. 

And from a basket emptied to the rout 

Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick 

And roar'd for more ; with many a hungry lick 

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, 

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, 

And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial : 

Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial 

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 



126 ENDYMION. 



BOOK III. 



She lifted up the charm : appealing groans 

From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear 

In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier 

She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. 

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, 

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, 

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage ; 

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 

And pufif from the tail's end to stifled throat: 

Then was appalling silence : then a sight 

More wildering than all that hoarse aiTright ; 

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, 

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanished. 

Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banished 

These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark 

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, 

With dancing and loud revelry, — and went 

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 

Sighing an elephant appeared and bow'd 

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 

In human accent: 'Potent goddess! chief 

Of pains resistless ! make my being brief, 

Or let me from this heavy prison fiy : 

Or give me to the air, or let me die! 

I sue not for my happy crown again ; 

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; 

I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife ; 

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! 

I will forget them ; I will pass these joys ; 

Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too high : 

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 

Or be delivered from this cumbrous flesh, 

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh. 

And merely given to the cold bleak air. 

Have mercy, Goddess ! Circe, feel my prayer!,' 

" That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing : truth had come 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 127 

Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 

I saw a fury whetting a death-dart ; 

And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, 

Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 

Think, my deliverer, how desolate 

My waking must have been! disgust, and hate, 

And terrors manifold divided me 

A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 

Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 

I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood 

Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, 

A clammy dew is beading on my brow, 

At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. 

' Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse 

Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express, 

To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee : yes, 

I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch : 

My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 

So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 

Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries 

Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 

Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine 

More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; 

And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! 

Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt 

One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh. 

That our heart-broken ])arting is so nigh. 

And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so. 

Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, 

Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 

And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews 

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : 

But such a love is mine, that here I chase 

Eternally away from thee all bloom 

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 

Hence shalt thou quickly to the w^atery vast ; 

And there, ere many days be overpast. 

Disabled age shall seize thee ; and even then 



128 ENDYMION. book iii. 

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 

Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath 

Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 

Adieu, sweet love, adieu! ' — As shot stars fall, 

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung 

And poisoned was my spirit : despair sung 

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 

A hand was at my shoulder to compel 

My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes 

Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise 

Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 

I found me ; by my fresh, my native home. 

Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, 

Came salutary as I waded in ; 

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 

Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave 

Large froth before me, while there yet remained 

Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drained. 

" Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite 
With dry cheek who can tell ? While thus my might 
Proving upon this element, dismay'd, 
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; 
I look'd — 'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! 

vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? 
Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, 
But thou must nip this tender innocent 
Because I lov'd her? — Cold, O cold indeed 
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed 
The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was 

1 clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass 
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, 
Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 
Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. 
Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl 
Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold! 
'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 

And all around — But wherefore this to thee 



BOOK III. END YM I ON. 129 

Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? — 
I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 
My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread 
Met palsy half way : soon these limbs became 
Gaunt, withered, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. 

" Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, 
Without one hope, without one faintest trace 
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
Of colorM phantasy ; for I fear 'twould trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reason : and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

" On a day, 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow up from the horizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force — 
So vanish'd : and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. 
Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen. 
But could not : therefore all the billows green 
Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. 
The tempest came : I saw that vessel's shrouds 
In perilous bustle ; while upon the deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck ; 
The final gulphing ; the poor struggling souls : 
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. 
O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld 
Annull'd my vigorous cravings : and thus quell'd 
And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit 
Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 
Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, 
By one and one, to pale oblivion ; 
And I was gazing on the surges prone. 
With many a scalding tear and many a groan, 
When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand, 



130 ENDYMION. BOOK III. 

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 
I knelt with pain — reached out my hand — had 

grasp'd 
These treasures — touched the knuckles — they un- 

clasp'd — 
I caught a finger : but the downward weight 
Cerpowered me — it sank. Then 'gan abate 
The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst 
The comfortable sun. I was athirst 
To search the book, and in the warming air 
Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on 
My soul page after page, till well-nigh won 
Into forgetfulness ; when, stupefied, 
I read these words, and read again, and tried 
My eyes against the heavens, and read again. 
O what a load of misery and pain 
Each Atlas-line bore off! — a shine of hope 
Came gold around me, cheering me to cope 
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an end. 

'■'■In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch^ 
Dooni'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch 
His loatWd existence through ten centuries^ 
And then to die alone. Who can devise 
A total opposition? No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebb and flow,, 
And he oppressed. Yet he shall 7iot die, 
These things accomplished: — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, aiid sounds ; 
Jf he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief. 
He must pursue this task of joy and grief 
Most piously ; — all lovers tenipest-tost^ 
Ajid in the savage overwhelming lost,, 
He shall deposit side by side, mitil 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 13 1 

Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : 
Which done, and all these labors ripened^ 
A youth, by heaiienly pozuer lov'd and led, 
Shall stand before him ; whom he shall direct 
How to consummate all. The yoicth elect 
Must do the thing, or both will be destroy' d^ — 

" Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoyed, 
"We are twin brothers in this destiny! 
Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high 
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd, 
Had we both perish'd? " — " Look ! " the sage replied, 
" Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, 
Of divers brilliances ? 'tis the edifice 
I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies ; • 
And where I have enshrined piously 
All lovers, whom fell storms have doomed to die 
Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on 
They went till unobscur^d the porches shone ; 
Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enterd straight. 
Sure never since king Neptune held his state 
Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. 
Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars 
Has legion'd all his battle ; and behold 
How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 
His even breast : see, many steeled squares, 
And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares 
One step? Imagine further, line by line. 
These warrior thousands on the field supine : — 
So in that crystal place, in silent rows, 
Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. — 
The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd 
Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd ; 
Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 
All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips. 
He mark'd their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair 
Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; 



132 ENDYMION. BOOK III. 

And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, 
Put cross-wise to its heart. 

" Let us commence," 
Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, " even now." 
H3 spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, 
Began to tear his scroll in pieces small. 
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. 
He tore it into pieces small as snow 
That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow; 
And having done it, took his dark blue cloak 
And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
His wand against the empty air times nine. — 
" What more there is to do, young man, is thine : 
But first a little patience ; first undo 
This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein ; 
And shouldst thou break it — What, is it done so 

clean ? 
A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave! 
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 
Here is a shell ; 'tis pearly blank to me, 
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! 
Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break 
This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 

'Twas done : and straight with sudden swell and 
fall 
Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd 
A lullaby to silence. — " Youth! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing through 
Those files of dead, scatter the same around, 
And thou wilt see the issue." — 'Mid the sound 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, 
And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. 
How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem, 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 133 

Out-sparkling sudden like an upturned gem, 

AppearM, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, 

KneePd down beside it, and with tenderest force 

Pressed its cold hand, and wept — and Scylla sigh'd! 

Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — 

The nymph arose : he left them to their joy, 

And onward went upon his high employ. 

Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. 

And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, 

As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 

Death felt it to his inwards ; 'twas too much : 

Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house. 

The Latmian persevered along, and thus 

All were re-animated. There arose 

A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 

Of gladness in the air — while many, who 

Had died in mutual arms devout and true, 

Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest 

Felt a high certainty of being blest. 

They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment 

Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. 

Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers. 

Budded, and swelPd, and, full-blown, shed full showers 

Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. 

The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 

Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out. 

Speechless they eyed each other, and about 

The fair assembly wander'd to and fro, 

Distracted with the richest overflow 

Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. 

"Away!" 

Shouted the new-born god ; " Follow, and pay 
Our piety to Neptunus supreme! " — 
Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, 
They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, 
Through portal columns of a giant size, 
Into the vaulted, boundless em'erald. 
Joyous all foUow'd, as the leader calPd, 



134 ENDYMION. book i 

Down marble steps ; pouring as easily 
As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see 
Swallows obeying the south summer's call, 
Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, 
Just within ken, they saw descending thick 
Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, 
And of those numbers every eye was wet ; 
For each their old love found. A murmuring rose. 
Like what was never heard in all the throes 
Of wind and waters : 'tis past human wit 
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. 



This mighty consummation made, the host 
Mov'd on for many a league ; and gain'd, and lost 
Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelhng in array. 
And from the rear diminishing away, — 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, 
'• Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! 
God Neptune's palaces ! " With noise increased, 
They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, — diamond gleams, and golden glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward ; still the splendor gradual swelPd. 
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank ; and deeper drank more near : 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, 
Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 



BOOK 1 1 1 . END YMION. 1 3 5 

As large, as bright, as color'd as the bow 
Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its march, 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, 
To which the leaders sped ; but not half raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 
And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, 
And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne 
Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone ; 
At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. •. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast. 
So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, 
Aw'd from the throne aloof; — and when storm-rent 
Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air ; 
But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, 
Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and north, 
A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 
Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through 
The delicatest air : air verily. 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, 
Globing a golden sphere. 



136 ENDYMION. BOOK III 

They stood in dreams 
Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
The Nereids dancM ; the Syrens faintly sang ; 
And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. 
Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 
On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; 
And when they reached the throned eminence 
She kist the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her down 
A toying with the doves. Then, — " Mighty crown 
And sceptre of this kingdom! " Venus said, 
" Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid : 
Behold!" — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 
From the God's large eyes ; he smiPd delectable, 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
"Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands 
Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet 
Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net? 
A little patience, youth ! 'twill not be long, 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious. 
Where these are new and strange, are ominous. 
Ave, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, 
When others were all blind ; and were I given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words : — but Love will have his day. 
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, 
Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, 
Visit my Cytherea : thou wilt find 
Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind ; 
And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have done, 
All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son! " — 
Thus the fair goddess : while Endymion 
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 137 

In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd ; 

And plundered vines, teeming exhaustless, pleached 

New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; 

The which, in disentangling for their fire, 

Puird down fresh foliage and coverture 

For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, 

Fluttered and laugh'd, and oft-times through the 

throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, 
And garlanding grew wild ; and pleasure reign'd. 
In harmless tendril they each other chainM, 
And strove who should be smother'd deepest in 
Fresh crush of leaves. 

O 'tis a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. O do not curse^ 
High Muses! let him hurry to the ending. 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending 
Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; 
And then a hymn. 

*' King of the stormy sea! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements ! Eternally before 
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, 
At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 
Its deepest foundations, hissing into foam. 
All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home 
Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. 
Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe 
Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gmfif complaint 
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint 
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team 
Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along 
To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
Apollo smgeth, while his chariot 
Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not 
For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 



138 ENDYMION. BO( 

And it hath furrow'd that large front : yet now, 

As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 

To blend and interknit 

Subdued majesty with this glad time. 

O shell-borne King sublime! 

We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 



'• Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; 
Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain ; 
Not flowers budding in an April rain, 
Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, — 
No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, 
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
Of goddess Cytherea! 

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes 
On our souls' sacrifice. 

"Bright-winged Child! 
Who has another care when thou hast smil'd? 
Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 
All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast 
Oar spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. 
O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions! 
God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, 
And panting bosoms bare! 
Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser 
Of light in light! delicious poisoner! 
Thy venom'd goblet will we quafl" until 
We fill — we fill! 
And by thy Mother's lips " 

Was heard no more 
For clamor, when the golden palace door 
Opened again, and from without, in shone 
A new magnificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, 
Before he went into his quiet cave 



BOOK III. ENDYMION. 139 

To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea. 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse — 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 
His fingers went across it — All were mute 
To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
"0 1 shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay! 
Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away! 
I die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing — " 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
To usher back his spirit into life : 
But still he slept. At last they interwove 
Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, 
To his inward senses these words spake aloud ; 
Written in star-light on the dark above : 
Dearest Endymioji ! my entire love ! 
How have I dwelt in fear of fate : "'tis done — - 
Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 
Arise then ! for the hen-dove shall not hatch 
Her ready eggs, before I HI kissing snatch 
Thee into endless heaven. Awake I awake I 

The youth at once arose : a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green, 
Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, 
Luird with its simple song his 'fluttering breast. 
How happy once again in grassy nest! 



ENDYMION. 



BOOK IV. 

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse! 

O first-born on the mountains! by the hues 

Of heaven on the spiritual air begot : 

Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, 

While yet our England was a wolfish den ; 

Before our forests heard the talk of men ; 

Before the first of Druids was a child ; — 

Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild 

Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 

There came an eastern voice of solemn mood : — 

Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, 

Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 

Some home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain, 

" Come hither, Sister of the Island! " Plain 

Spake fair Ausonia ; and once more she spake 

A higher summons : — still didst thou betake 

Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won 

A full accomplishment! The thing is done, 

Which undone, these our latter days had risen 

On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what 

prison 
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 
Our spirit's wings : despondency besets 
Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn 
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 
140 



BOOK IV. END YMION. 1 4 1 

Long have I said, how happy he who shrives 
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone, 
And could not pray : — nor can I now — so on 
I move to the end in lowliness of heart. 

" Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part 
From my dear native land ! Ah, foolish maid ! 
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade 
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields! 
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields 
A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour : 
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour 
Of native air — let me but die at home." 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows. 
When these words reached him. Whereupon he bows 
His head through thorny-green entanglement 
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent, 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

" Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn 
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying 
To set my dull and saddenM spirit playing? 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so sweet 
That I may worship them? No eyelids meet 
To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies 
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 
Redemption sparkles! — 1 am sad and lost." 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air. 
Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear 
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless? 
Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store, 
Behold her panting in the forest grass! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 



142 ENDYMION. B( 

For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain, 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to perch 
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids? — Hist! 



I 



I 



" O for Hermes' wand, 
To touch this flower into human shape! 
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling down 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown! 
Ah me, how I could love! — My soul doth melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love! I have felt 
So faint a kindness^ such a meek surrender 
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender^ 
That but for tears my life had fled away ! — 
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day, 
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
But in the eye of love : there's not a sound. 
Melodious howsoever, can confound 
The heavens and earth in one to such a death 
As doth the voice of love : there's not a breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart! " — 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
Thirst for another love : O impious, 
That he can even dream upon it thus! — 
Thought he, " Why am I not as are the dead. 
Since to a woe like this I have been led 
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous 

sea? 
Goddess! I love thee not the less : from thee - 
By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no — 
While the great waters are at ebb and flow. — 



BOOK IV. END YM I ON. 143 

I have a triple soul! O fond pretence — 
For both, for both my love is so immense, 
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.''' 

And so he groanYl, as one by beauty slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 
He sprang from his green covert : there she lay, 
Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries. 
" Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 

Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! 
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel 
Loving and hatred, misery and weal. 

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, 

And all my story that much passion slew me ; 

Do smile upon the evening of my days : 

And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze. 

Be thou my nurse ; and let me understand 

How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. — 

Dost weep for me? Then should I be content. 

Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 

Outblackens Erebus, and the fuU-cavern'd earth 

Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth 

Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 

To meet oblivion." — As her heart would burst 

The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied : 

"Why must such desolation betide 

As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks 

Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 

Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush, 

Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to brush 

About the dewy forest, whisper iales? — 

Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails 



144 END YM I ON. book iv. 

Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt, 

Methinks 'twould be a guilt — a very guilt — 

Not to companion thee, and sigh away 

The light — the dusk — the dark — till break of day ! " 

" Dear lady," said Endymion, " 'tis past : 

I love thee! and my days can never last. 

That I may pass in patience still speak : 

Let me have music dying, and I seek 

No^more delight — I bid adieu to all. 

Didst thou not after other climates call. 

And murmur about Indian streams?" — Then she, 

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, 

For pity sang this roundelay 

" O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? — 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

"O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye? — 

To give the glow-worm light? 

Or, on a moonless night. 
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 

" O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? — 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale, 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? 

" O Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? — 



BOOK IV. END YM I ON. 145 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head, 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day — 

Nor any drooping flower 

Held sacred for thy bower, 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

" To Sorrow, 

I bade good-morrow, 
And thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerly, cheerly, 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind : 

I would deceive her 

And so leave her, 
But ah! she is so constant and so kind. 

" Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, 
I sat a weeping : in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me why I wept, — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 

" Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, 
I sat a weeping : what enamour'd bride, 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds. 

But hides and shrouds 
Beneath dark palm trees by a river side? 

"And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 

'Twas Bacchus and his crew! 
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 

'Twas Bacchus and his kin! 
Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 



146 ENDYMION. BOOK IV. 

All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 

To scare thee, Melancholy! 
O then. O then, thou wast a simple name! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, 
Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 

I rush'd into the folly! 

" Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For Venus"' pearly bite ; " 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quaffing. 

"Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye! 
So many, and so many, and such glee.'* 
Why have ye left your bowers desolate. 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? — 
'■ We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide. 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our wild minstrelsy! ' 

"Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye! 
So many, and so many, and such glee? 
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft? — 
' For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 

And cold mushrooms ; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth ! — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our mad minstrelsy ! ' 



BOOK IV. ENDYMION. 147 

'' Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and dance, 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 

Nor care for wind and tide. 

" Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes. 
From rear to van they scour about the plains ; 
A three days' journey in a moment done :. 
And always, at the rising of the sun, 
About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn. 
On spleenful unicorn. 

" I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crown! 
I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce! 
The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail, 
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 

And all his priesthood moans ; 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. — 
Into these regions came I following him. 
Sick hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear 

Alone, without a peer : 
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

"Young stranger! 
I've been a ranger 
[n search of pleasure throughout every clime : 



148 ENDYMION. BOOK It. 

Alas! 'tis not for me! 
Bewitched I sure must be, 
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

"Come then, Sorrow! 

Sweetest Sorrow! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 

I thought to leave thee 

And deceive thee, 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

" There is not one, 

No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 

Thou art her mother, 

And her brother, 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." 



O what a sigh she gave in finishing. 
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her ; 
And listened to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily, 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remembered from its velvet summer song. 
At last he said : " Poor lady, how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice? 
Fair Melody! kind Syren! Tve no choice; 
I must be thy sad servant evermore : 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think— by Phoebe, no! 
Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so? 
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think? 
O thou could'st foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection! make my watchful care 
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see desp.air! 
Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly! — 



BOOK IV. END YM I ON. 149 

Fm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 

O let it blush so ever! let it soothe 

Mv madness! let it mantle rosy-warm 

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. — 

This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is ; 

And this is sm'e thine other softling — this 

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near! 

Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear! 

And whisper one sweet word that I may know 

This is this world — sweet dewy blossom ! " — Woe ! 

Woe! Woe to that EndyDiioii I Where is he? — 

Even these words went echoing dismally 

Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone, 

Like one repenting in his latest moan ; 

And while it died away a shade pass'd by, 

As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly. 

Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek 

forth 
Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both 
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 
Waiting for some destruction — when lo, 
Foot-feather'd Mercury appeared sublime 
Beyond the tall tree tops ; and in less time 
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt 
Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor stopt 
One moment from his home : only the sward 
He with his wand light touched, and heavenward 
Swifter than sight was gone — even before 
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
Above the crystal circlings white and clear ; 
And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise, 
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise — 
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, 
Each with large dark blue wings upon his back. 
The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame 
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew, 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew 



150 END YMION. BOOK i v 

Exhard to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone, 
Far from the earth away — unseen, alone, 
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above their heads, and follow them untir'd. — 
Muse of my native land, am I inspired? ^ 

This is the giddy air, and I must spread ■ 

Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread S 

Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance ■ 
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful freight. 
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?- 
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and behold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold 
Snufif at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, 
Dying to embers from their native fire! 

There curPd a purple mist around them ; soon, 
It seenVd as when around the pale new moon 
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow 
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. 
For the first time, since he came nigh dead born 
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn 
Had he left more forlorn ; for the first time, 
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime — 
Because into his depth Cimmerian 
There came a dream, shewing how a young man, 
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin. 
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win 
An immortality, and how espouse 
Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house. 
Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate, 
That he might at the threshold one hour wait 
To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 
His litter of smooth semilucent mist. 
Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst, 



BOOK IV. END YMION. 151 

Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought ; 

And scarcely for one moment could be caught 

His sluggish form reposing motionless. 

Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress 

Of vision searched for him, as one would look 

Athwart the sallows of a river nook 

To catch a glance at silver throated eels, — 

Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals 

His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, 

With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale 

Descry a favorite hamlet faint and far. 

These raven horses, though they foster'd are 
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 
Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop ; 
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting : and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks 
On heaven's pavement ; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain : 
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow, 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt : arch Hebe brings 
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
And tantalizes long ; at last he drinks. 
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks. 
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand. 
He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 
Are visible above : the Seasons four, — 
Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store 
In Autumn's sickle. Winter frosty hoar, 
Join dance with shadowy Hours ; while still the blast, 



152 END YM I ON. BOOK IV. 

In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
To sway th^ir floating morris. "Whose is this? 
Whose bugle?" he inquires : they smile — "O Dis! 
Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know 
Its mistress' lips? Not thou? — 'Tis Dian's : lo! 
She rises crescented! ■' He looks, "'tis she. 
His very goddess : good-bye earth, and sea. 
And air, and pains, and care, and suffering ; 
Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he spring 
Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, overhead, 
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, 
Beheld awake his very dream : the gods 
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; 
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. 

state perplexing! On the pinion bed. 
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 
Of his delicious lady. He who died 
For soaring too audacious in the sun, 

Where that same treacherous wax began to run, 
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 
To that fair shadow'd passion pulsM its way — 
Ah, what perplexity ! Ah, well a day ! 
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow. 
He could not help but kiss her : then he grew 
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 
Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd ; and so 'gan crave 
Forgiveness : yet he turn'd once more to look 
At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, — 
She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more 
He could not help but kiss her and adore. 
At this the shadow wept, melting away. 
The Latmian started up : " Bright goddess, stay! 
Search my most hidden breast! By truth's owi 
tongue, 

1 have no daedale heart : why is it wrung 
To desperation? Is there nought for me, 
Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?" 



BOOK IV . END YMION. 153 

These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses : 
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses 
With 'havior soft. Sleep yawned from underneath. 
" Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe 
This murky phantasm! thou contented seem^st 
Pillovv'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
What horrors may discomfort thee and me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery! — 
Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 
Hath no revenge in it : as it is whole 
In tenderness, would I were whole in love! 
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
Even when 1 feel as true as innocence? 
I do, I do. — What is this soul then? Whence 
Came it? It does not seem my own, and I 
Have no self-passion or identity. 
Some fearful end must be : where, where is it? 
By Nemesis. I see my spirit flit 
Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet: 
Shall we away?" He rous'd the steeds : they beat 
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, 
Leaving old Sleep within his vapory lair. 

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow, 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, 
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof. 
So witless of their doom, that verily 
'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to see ; 
Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or griev'd, or toy'd — 
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd. 

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, 
The moon put forth a little diamond peak. 



154 END YM I ON. book iv 

No bigger than an unobserved star, 

Or tiny point of fairy scymetar ; 

Bright signal that she only stoopM to tie 

Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 

She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. 

Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled, 

While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 

To mark if her dark eyes had yet discerned 

This beauty in its birth — Despair! despair! 

He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 

In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz'd her wrist 

It melted from his grasp : her hand he kiss'd, 

And, horror! kiss'd his own — he was alone. 

Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then 

Dropt hawk wise to the earth. 

There lies a den, 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart : 
And in these regions many a venom'd dart 
At random flies ; they are the proper home 
Of every ill : the man is yet to come 
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt how calm and well 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting ; nor pleasure pall : 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 
No sound so loud as when on curtained bier 
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who strive therefore : on the sudden it is won. 
Just when the suff"erer begins to burn. 
Then it is free to him ; and from an urn, 



BOOK IV. END YAH ON. 155 

Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaft 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom! 
Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom 
Of health by due ; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
O happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul ! 
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
Hast thou felt so content : a grievous feud 
Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
Aye, his luU'd soul was there, although upborne 
With dangerous speed : and so he did hot mourn 
Because he knew not whither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. 
They stung the feathered horse : with fierce alarm 
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no charm 
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had viewed 
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
And silvery was its passing : voices sweet 
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, 
While past the vision went in bright array. 

*' Who, who from Dian's feast would be away? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left? Who, who away would be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
Not Hesperus : lo! upon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings. 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily! — 
Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too! 
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, 



156 END YM I ON. BOOK iv. 

Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 

Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ; 
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
All gathered in the dewy morning : hie 

Away! fly, fly! — 
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings. 
Two fan-like fountains, — thine illuminings 

For Dian play : 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air; 
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
Shew cold through watery pinions ; make more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night: 

Haste, haste away! — 
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
A third is in the race! who is the third. 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird? 

The ramping Centaur! 
The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
Lito the blue of heaven. He'll be shent, 

Pale unrelentor. 
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing. — 
Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars: come hither! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither 

They all are going. 
Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd, 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral : 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 
By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo! — " 



BOOK IV. END YMION, 1 5 7 

More 
Endymion heard not : down his steed him bore, 
Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. 
"Alas!" said he, " were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, but had my footsteps worn 
A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering : to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim, 
Sorrovv^ is but a shadow : now I see 
The grass ; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — who ? who 
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are ; " 
Let us ay love each other ; let us fare 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below, 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny! 
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, 
But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt to? By thee will I sit 
For ever: let our fate stop here — a kid 
Ion this spot will oiTer : Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen 
Or felt but a great dream! O I have been 
Presumptuous against love, against the sky, 
Agamst all elements, against the tie 
Of mortals each to each, against the blcoms 
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 
Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 
Ha'^ my own soul conspired : so my story 
Will I to children utter, and repent. 
There never liv'd a mortal man, who bent 
His appetite beyond his natural sphere. 
But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, 



158 END YM I ON. BOOK IV. 

Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell 

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 

Of visionary seas! No, never more 

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 

Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast 

My love is still for thee. The hour may come 

When we shall meet in pure elysium. 

On earth I may not love thee ; and therefore 

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 

All through the teeming year : so thou wilt shine 

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine. 

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss! 

My river-lily bud! one human kiss! 

One sigh of real breath — one gentle squeeze. 

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees. 

And warm' with dew at ooze from living blood! 

Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that! — all good 

We"'ll talk about — no more of dreraning. — Now, 

Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none ; 

And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through, 

Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew? 

O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ; 

Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace 

Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined : 

For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, 

And by another, in deep dell below. 

See, through the trees, a little river go 

All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 

Honey from out the gnarled hive Til bring. 

And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — 

Cresses that grow where no man may them see, 

And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag : 

Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, 

That thou mayst always know whither I roam, 



BOOK IV. END YMION. 1 5 9 

When it shall please thee in our quiet home 

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak; 

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 

For yet the past doth prison me. The rill, 

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn. 

And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn. 

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells. 

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. 

Its sides ril plant with dew-sweet eglantine, 

And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 

I will entice this crystal rill to trace 

Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. 

ril kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 

And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 

To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear ^ 

To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, 

That I may see thy beauty through the night ; 

To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 

Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, 

And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods 

Of gold, and Hnes of Naiads' long bright tress. 

Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness! 

Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 

'Fore which Fll bend, bending, dear love, to thee : - 

Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak 

Laws to my footsteps, color to my cheek, 

Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice, 

And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice : 

And that affectionate light, those diamond things, 

Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl 

springs, 
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. 
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure '^. 
O that I could not doubt ? " 

. The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear 
His briar'd path to some tranquillity. 



i6o ENDYMIOM. book iv. 

It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye, 

And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow; 

Answering thus, just as the golden morrow 

Beam''d upward from the vallies of the east : 

" O that the flutter of this heart had ceas'd, 

Or the sweet name of love had passed away. 

Young feathered tyrant ! by a swift decay 

Wilt thou devote this body to the earth : 

And I do think that at my very birth 

I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly ; 

For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, 

With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. 

Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven 

To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do! 

When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 

Favor from thee, and so I kisses gave 

To the void air, bidding them find out love : 

Bat when I came to feel how fir above 

All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, 

All earthly pleasure, all imagined good. 

Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, — 

Even then, that moment, at the thought of this, 

Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers. 

And languished there three days. Ye milder powers, 

Am I not cruelly wronged? Believe, believe 

Me. dear Endymion, were I to weave 

With my own fancies garlands of sweet life. 

Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife! 

I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — 

Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chidden, 

By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. 

Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went : henceforth 

Ask me no more! I may not utter it. 

Nor may I be thy love. We might commit 

Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die ; 

We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought! 

Enlarge not to my hunger, or Pm caught 

In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 

No, no, that shall not be : thee will I bless, 

And bid a long adieu." 



BOOK IV. ENDYMION. i6l 

The Carian 
No word return'd : both lovelorn, silent, wan, 
Into the vallies green together went. 
Far wandering, they were perforce content 
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree ; 
Nor at each other gaz'd, but heavily 
Por'd on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves 
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Ensky'd ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
Thy lute-voic"d brother will I sing ere long, 
And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided me? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity 
Has been thy meed for many thousand years ; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, 
Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester ; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 
His eves from the dead leaves, or one small pulse 
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant 
A crescent he had carv'd. and round it spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery, 
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope 
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope ; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd 
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin, 
Fly in the air where his had never been- — 
And yet he knew it not. 

O treachery ! 
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 



1 62 EN DY MI ON. book r 

With all his sorrowing? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister sure ! 
Peona of the woods! — Can she endure — 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face ; 
It is no treachery. 

" Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine 
When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be? 
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly ; 
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. 
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. 
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. 
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
The flowers of autumn for your coronals. 
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls ; 
And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame, 
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad : 
O feel as if it were a common day ; 
Free-voic'd as one who never was away. 
No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall 
Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
Into the hours that have pass'd us by, 
Since in my arbor I did sing to thee. 
O Hermes! on this very night will be 
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light ; 
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 
Good visions in the air, — whence will befal, 
As say these sages, health perpetual 
To shepherds and their flocks ; and furthermore, 
In Dian's face they read the gentle lore : 
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 
Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. 



BOOK IV. ENDYMION. 163 

Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 

And many, even now, their foreheads shade 

With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 

New singing for our maids shalt thou devise, 

And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows. 

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 

This wayward brother to his rightful joys! 

His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise 

His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, 

To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 

What ails thee? " He could bear no more, and so 

Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow. 

And twanged it inwardly, and calmly said : 

*'I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid! 

My only visitor! not ignorant though. 

That those deceptions which for pleasure go 

'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be : 

But there are higher ones I may not see, 

If impiously an earthly realm I take. 

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 

Night after night, and day by day, until 

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 

Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me 

More happy than betides mortality. 

A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave. 

Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave 

Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well ; 

For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 

And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 

Peona, mayst return to me. I own 

This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl, 

Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair! 

Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 

This sister's love with me?" Like one resign'd 

And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind 

In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown : 



164 ENDYMION. BOOK IV. 

" Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, 

Of jubilee to Dian : — truth I heard! 

Well then, I see there is no little bird, 

Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 

Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware. 

Behold I find it! so exalted too! 

So after my own heart! I knew, I knew 

There was a place untenanted in it : 

In that same void white Chastity shall sit, 

And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 

With sanest lips I vow me to the number 

Of Dian's sisterhood ; and, kind lady. 

With thy good help, this very night shall see 

My future days to her fane consecrate." 

As feels a dreamer what doth most create 
His own particular fright, so these three felt : 
Or like one who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Towards common thoughts and things for very fear; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no. 
That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow 
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last 
Endymion said : " Are not our fates all cast? 
Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair! 
Adieu! " Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, 
Walked dizzily away. Pained and hot 
His eyes went after them, until they got 
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw. 
In one swift moment, would what then he saw 
Engulph for ever. '■'■ Stay!" he cried, "ah, stay! 
Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say. 
Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. " 
It is a thing I dote on : so Fd fain, 
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair 



BOOK IV. END YM I ON. 165 

Into those holy groves, that silent are 

Behind great Dian's temple. Til be yon, 

At vesper^s earliest twinkle — they are gone — 

But once, once, once again — ■" At this he press'd 

His hands against his face, and then did rest 

His head upon a mossy hillock green. 

And so remained as he a corpse had been 

All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted 

His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 

With the slow- move of time, — sluggish and weary 

Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 

Had reached the river's brim. Then up he rose, 

And, slowly as that very river flow^s, 

Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament : 

" Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is sent 

Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall " 

Before the serene father of them all 

Bows down his summer head below the west. 

Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, 

But at the setting I must bid adieu 

To her for the last time. Night will strew 

On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, 

And with them shall I die ; nor much it grieves 

To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 

Why, 1 have been a butterfly, a lord 

Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, 

Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses ; 

My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 

That I should die with it : so in all this 

We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe, 

What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe 

I am but rightly serv'd." So saying, he 

Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ; 

Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, 

As though they jests had been : nor had he done 

His laugh at nature's holy countenance, 

Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, 

And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 

Gave utterance as he entered : " Ha! " I said, 



1 66 ENDYMION. BOOK 

" King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom, 

And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 

This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, 

And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 

By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 

Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 

Myself to things of light from infancy ; 

And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, 

Is sure enough to make a mortal man 

Grow impious." So he inwardly began 

On things for which no wording can be found ; 

Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 

Beyond the reach of music : for the choir 

Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar 

Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull 

The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full. 

Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. 

He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, 

Wan as primroses gathered at midnight 

By chilly finger'd spring. " Unhappy wight! 

Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here! 

What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier? " 

Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 

Pressed, saying : " Sister, I would have command. 

If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." 

At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate 

And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love. 

To Endymion's amaze : " By Cupid's dove, 

And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth 

Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth! " 

And as she spake, into her face there came 

Light, as reflected from a silver flame : 

Her long black hair swelPd ampler, in display 

Full golden ; in her eyes a brighter day 

Dawm'd blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld 

Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld 

Her lucid bow, continuing thus ; " Drear, drear 

Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear 

Withheld me first ; and then decrees of fate ; 



BOOK IV. ENDYMION. 167 

And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state 

Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlookM for change 

Be spiritualiz'd. Peona, we shall range 

These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 

As was thy cradle ; hither shalt thou flee 

To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright 

Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night : 

Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 

Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 

She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, 

Before three swiftest kisses he had told, 

They vanish^ far away! — Peona went 

Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. 



THE END. 



[Published 1820] 



LAMIA, 

ISABELLA, 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, 

AND 

OTHER POEMS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



If any apology be thought necessary for the appearance 
of the unfinished poem of Hyperion, the publishers beg 
to state that they alone are responsible, as it was printed 
at their particular request, and contrary to the wish of the 
author. The poem was intended to have been of equal 
length with Endymion, but the reception given to that 
work discouraged the author from proceeding. 

Fleet Street, yune 26, 1820. 



LAMIA. 



PART I. 

Upon a time, before the faery broods 
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, 
Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, 
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowsHp'd lawns, 
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : 
From high Olympus had he stolen light. 
On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 
Of his great summoner, and made retreat 
Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 
At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured 
Pearls, while on land they withered and adored. 
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, 
And in those meads where sometime she might haunt, 
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 
Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet! 
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 
Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, 
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 

171 



172 LAMIA. PARTI. 

From vale to vale, from wood to v^ood, he flew, 

Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, 

And wound with many a river to its head, 

To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret 

bed: 
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, 
And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, 
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 
All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : 
"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake! 
" When move in a sweet body fit for life, 
" And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 
" Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! " 
The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
Until he found a palpitating snake. 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barrM ; 
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, 
She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, 
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet! 
She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete ; 
And for her eyes : what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they v/ere born so fair? 
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 



PART I. LAMIA. 1 73 

Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
Came, as through bubbUng honey, for Love's sake, 
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey. 

"Fair Hermes, crown'd with feathers, fluttering 

light, 
" I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
" I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 
"Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
" The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
" The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chaunting clear, 
" Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, 
" Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious 

moan. 
" I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, 
" Break amorous through the clouds, as morning 

breaks, 
" And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, 
" Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art! 
" Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid? " 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
" Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired! 
" Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes, 
" Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, 
" Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
"Where she doth breathe!" "Bright planet, thou 

hast said," 
Returned the snake, "but seal with oaths, fair God! " 
" I swear," said Hermes, " by my serpent rod, 
" And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! " 
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms 

blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
"Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine, 
" Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
" About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
" She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 



1 74 LAMIA. PART I. 

" Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet ; 

" From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green, 

" She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : 

" And by my power is her beauty veiPd 

" To keep it unaffronted, unassaiPd 

" By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, 

" Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 

" Pale grew her immortality, for woe 

" Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 

" I took compassion on her, bade her steep 

" Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 

" Her loveliness invisible, yet free 

" To wander as she loves, in liberty. 

" Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, 

"If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!" 

Then, once again, the charmed God began 

An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 

Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 

Ravish'd, she lifted her Circean head, 

Blush'd a Hve damask, and swift-lisping said, 

" I was a woman, let me have once more 

" A woman's shape, and charming as before. 

" I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss! 

" Give me my woman's form, and place me where 

he is. 
" Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, 
" And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." 
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene. 
She breath'd upon his eyes, and swift was seen 
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. 
It was no dream ; or say a dream it was. 
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem 
Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd ; 
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 
To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm, 
Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm. 
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent. 



PARTI. LAMIA. 175 

Full of adoring tears and blandishment, 

And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, 

Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain 

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 

That faints into itself at evening hour : 

But the God fostering her chilled hand. 

She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland, 

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 

Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 

Into the green-recessed woods they flew; 

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 

Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran. 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, 
Withered at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, 
Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear. 
Flashed phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cool- 
ing tear. 
The colors all inflam''d throughout her train. 
She writh'd about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede ; 
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, 
Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 
So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, 
And rubious-argent : of all these bereft. 
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
Still shone her crown ; that vanished, also she 
Melted and disappeared as suddenly ; 
And in the air, her new voice luting soft. 
Cried, " Lycius ! gentle Lycius ! " — Borne aloft 
With the bright mists about the mountains hoar 
These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no more. 



1 76 LAMIA, PART 

Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the Peraean rills, 
And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, 
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread, 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills. 
While her robes flaunted with the daff"odils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy: 
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learned to the red heart's core : 
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbor pain ; 
Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art; 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; 
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent : 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair 



PARTI. LAMIA. 177 

Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; 

Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, 

Stretched out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 

Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 

Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 

And sometimes into cities she would send 

Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 

And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, 

She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 

Charioting foremost in the envious race, 

Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, 

And fell into a swooning love of him. 

Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 

He would return that way, as well she knew, 

To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 

The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 

Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow 

In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 

Fresh anchored ; whither he had been awhile 

To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 

Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense 

rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and bettered his desire ; 
For by some freakful chance he made retire 
From his companions, and set forth to walk, 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : 
Over the solitary hills he fared. 
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appeared 
His phantasy was lost, w'here reason fades. 
In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — 
Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
So neighbored to him, and yet so unseen 
She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries, 
His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes 
Followed his steps, and her neck regal white 
Turn'd — syllabling thus, '' Ah, Lycius bright, 
" And will you leave me on the hills alone .'' 



178 LAMIA. PARTI. 

" Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown." 

He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly, 

But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ; 

For so delicious were the words she sung, 

It seemM he had lov'd them a whole summer long: 

And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 

Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, 

And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 

Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid 

Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 

Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so 

sure : 
"Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see 
" Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
" For pity do not this sad heart belie — 
"Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 
" Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay! 
^* To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 
" Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 
" Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 
" Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
"Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
" Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine? 
" So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
" Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade 
" Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 
" For pity do not melt! " — " If I should stay," 
Said Lamia, " here, upon this floor of clay, 
" And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, 
"What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
" To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 
" Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 
" Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 
" Empty of immortality and bliss ! 
" Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
" That finer spirits cannot breathe below 
"In human climes, and live : Alas! poor youth, 
" What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
" My essence ? What serener palaces, 



PART I. LAMIA. 1 79 

"Where I may all my many senses please, 
" And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts ap- 
pease ? 
"It cannot be — Adieu!" So said, she rose 
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 
The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 
Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be, 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity, 
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
And as he from one trance was wakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing, 
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres. 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant- 
ing fires. 
And then she whisperM in such trembling tone. 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguished days, 
Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 
Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains 
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
And next she wondered how his eyes could miss 
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said, 
She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 
Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
Without the aid of love; yet in content 
Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd 
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 
Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before 
The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more, 



l80 LAMIA. PARTI. 

But wept alone those days, for why should she 

adore? 
Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 
Then from amaze into delight he fell 
To hear her whisper woman^s lore so well ; 
And every word she spake entic'd him on 
To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
Let the mad poets say whatever they please 
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
There is not such a treat among them all, 
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 
As a real woman, lineal indeed 
From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright, 
That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
More pleasantly by playing woman's part. 
With no more awe than what her beauty gave, 
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. 
Lycius to all made eloquent reply. 
Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh ; 
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, 
If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet. 
The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
jyiade, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized. 
They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how, 
So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 
Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples lewd, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd, 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white. 



PARTI. LAMIA. lol 

Companioned or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals, 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls, 
Or found them clustered in the corniced shade 
Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. 

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear, 
Her fingers he pressed hard, as one came near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald 

crown. 
Slow-stepped, and robed in philosophic gown : 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past, 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he, 
"Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully? 
"Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?" — 
" Fm wearied," said fair Lamia : " tell me who 
" Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
" His features : — Lycius! wherefore did you blind 
" Yourself from his quick eyes ? " Lycius replied, 
" 'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide 
" And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 
"The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." 

While yet he spake they had arrived before 
A pillared porch, with lofty portal door. 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 
Reflected in the slabbed steps below, 
Mild as a star in water ; for so new. 
And so unsullied was the marble hue, 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine. 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touched there. Sounds ^olian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 
Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown 
Some time to any, but those two alone, 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 
Were seen about the markets : none knew where 



1 82 LAMIA. PART I 

They could inhabit ; the most curious 

Were foiPd, who watch'd to trace them to their house 

And but the flitter-winged verse must tell, 

For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel, 

'Twould humor many a heart to leave them thus, 

Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 



LAMIA. 



PART II. 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 

That is a doubtful tale from faery land. 

Hard for the non-elect to understand. 

Had Lycius liv"d to hand his story down. 

He might have given the moral a fresh frown. 

Or clenchM it quite : but too short was their bliss 

To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice 

hiss. 
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
Hover'd and buzzM his wings, with fearful roar, 
Above the lintel of their chamber door, 
And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 

For all this came a ruin : side by side 
They were enthroned, in the even tide, 
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
Whose airy texture, from a golden string. 
Floated into the room, and let appear 
Jnveird the summer heaven, Hue and clear, 
Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed. 
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, 
Saving a tythe which love still open kept, 

183 



184 LAMIA. PART 11. 

That they might see each other while they almost 

slept ; 
When from the slope side of a suburb hill, 
Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled, 
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
For the first time, since first he harbored in 
That purple-lined palace of sweet sin. 
His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, 
Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
Of something more, more than her empery 
Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
That but a moment's thought is passion's passing 

bell. 
" Why do you sigh, fair creature ? " whisper'd he : 
'' Why do you think?" returned she tenderly : 
" You have deserted me ; — where am I now ? 
" Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow : 
" No, no, you have dismissed me ; and I go 
"From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so." 
He answered, bending to her open eyes, 
Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, 
"My silver planet, both of eve and morn! 
" Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 
" While I am striving how to fill my heart 
"With deeper crimson, and a double smart? 
" How to entangle, trammel up and snare 
" Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there 
" Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose? 
"Ay, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 
"My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then! 
" What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
" May be confounded and abashed withal, 
" But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, 
" And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 
" Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 



PART II. LAMIA. 185 

" Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, 
"While through the thronged streets your bridal car 
"Wheels round its dazzling spokes." — The lady's 

cheek 
Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, 
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 
Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, 
To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, 
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 
Her wild and timid nature to his aim : 
Besides, for all his love, in self despite, 
Against his better self, he took delight 
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 
His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 
Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 
In one whose brow had no dark veins to sweU. 
Fine was the mitigated fury, like 
Apollo's presence when in act to strike 
The serpent — Ha, the serpent! certes, she 
Was none. She burnt, she lov'd the tyranny, 
And, all subdued, consented to the hour 
When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 
Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 
"Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my 

truth, 
" I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
" Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
"As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
"Fit appellation for this dazzling frame? 
" Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, 
" To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?" 
" I have no friends," said Lamia, '• no, not one ; 
" My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : 
" My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
" Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, 
" Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, 
"And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
" Even as you list invite your many guests ; 



1 86 LAMIA. PART II. 

" But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
"With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
"Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid." 
Lycius, perplexed at words so blind and blank, 
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
VeiPd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, 
With other pageants : but this fair unknown 
Had not a friend. So being left alone, 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin) 
And knowing surely she could never "win 
His foolish heart from its mad pompousness, 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the doors, 
There was a noise of wings, till in short space 
The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched 

grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side. 
High in the midst, in honor of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 
From either side their stems branched one to one 
All down the aisled place ; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to 

wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal drest, 
Silently paced about, and as she went, 



PART II. 



LAMIA, 187 



In pale contented sort of discontent, 
Missioned her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendor of each nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first. 
Came jasper pannels ; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. 
And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still, 
Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
When dreadful guests would come to spoil her 
solitude. 

The day appeared, and all the gossip rout. 
O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloistered hours. 
And show to common eyes these secret bowers? 
The herd approached ; each guest, with busy brain, 
Arriving at the portal, gaz'd amain, 
And entered marveling : for they knew the street, 
Remembered it from childhood all complete 
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen : 
Save one, who looked thereon with eye severe, 
And with calm-planted steps walked in austere ; 
'Twas Apollonius : something too he laugh'd, 
As though some knotty problem, that had daft 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw. 
And solve and melt : — 'twas just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. "Tis no common rule, 
" Lycius," said he, " for uninvited guest 
" To force himself upon you, and infest 
" With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
" Of younger friends ; yet must. I do this wrong, 
"And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led 
The old man through the inner doors broad-spread ; 



io8 LAMIA. PART II. 

With reconciling words and courteous mien 
Turning into sweet milk the sophisfs spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
Fiird with pervading brilliance and perfume : 
Before each lucid pannel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 
To the high roof, still mimicked as they rose 
Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. 
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered, 
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
Tlius loaded with a feast the tables stood. 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 

When in an antichamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, 
By ministYing slaves, upon his hands and feet, 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all mov'd to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth 
could spring. 

Soft went the music the soft air along. 
While fluent Greek a vowePd undersong 
Kept up among the guests, discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; 
Bat when the happy vintage touched their brains, 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, 



PART II. LAMIA. 189 

The space, the splendor of the draperies, 

The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 

Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear. 

Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 

And every soul from human trammels freed, 

No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine, 

Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 

Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height ; 

Flushed were their cheeks, and bright eyes double 

bright : 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 
From vales deflowered, or forest-trees branch-rent. 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought 
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
Of every guest ; that each, as he did please. 
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 

What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius? 
What for the sage, old Apollonius? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage. 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. 

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place. 
Scarce saw in all the room another face, 
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took 



190 LAMIA. PART II. 

Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, 
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, 
Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then pressed her hand, with devout touch, 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
'Tvvas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
" Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou 

start ? 
'•Know'st thou that man?" Poor Lamia answered 

not. 
He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
More, more he gaz'd : his human senses reel : 
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ; 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 
" Lamia! " he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ; 
A deadly silence step by step increased, 
Until it seem'd a horrid presence there, 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
" Lamia! " he shriek'd ; and nothing but the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 
" Begone, foul dream! " he cried, gazing again 
In the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume 
The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; 
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 
" Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man 1 



LAMIA. 191 



" Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 

" Here represent their shadowy presences, 

'•■ May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 

" Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn, 

"In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 

" Of conscience, for their long offended might, 

" For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries, 

" Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 

" Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch ! 

" Mark how, possessed, his lashless eyelids stretch 

" Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 

" My sweet bride withers at their potency." 

" Fool! " said the sophist, in an under-tone 

Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 

From Lycius answered, as heart-struck and lost. 

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 

•^' Fool! Fool! " repeated he, while his eyes still 

Relented not, nor mov'd ; " from every ill 

" Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 

"And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey? " 

Then Lamia breath'd death breath ; the sophist's eye, 

Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 

Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well 

As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 

Motion'd him to be silent ; vainly so. 

He looked and look'd again a level — No! 

" A Serpent! " echoed he ; no sooner said, 

Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 

And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 

As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 

On the high couch he lay! — his friends came round — 

Supported him — no pulse, or breath they found. 

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. ^ 

1 " Philostratus, in his fourth book De Vita Apollonii, hath a 
memorable instance in this kind, which! may not omit, of one Menip- 
pus Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt 
Cenchreas and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair 
gentlewoman, which taking him by the hand, carried him home to her 



192 LAMIA. PART 11. 

house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician 
by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he should hear her sing and 
play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should 
molest him; but she, being fair and lovely, would live and die with 
him, that was fair and lovely to behold. , The young man, a philoso- 
pher, otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, 
though not this of love, tarried with her a while to his great content, 
and at last married her, to whose wedding, amongst other guests, came 
Apollonius; who, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be 
a serpent, a lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, 
described by Homer, no substance but mere illusions. When she saw 
herself descried, she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent, but he 
would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that 
was in it, vanished in an instant: many thousands took notice of this 
fact, fir it was done in the midst of Greece." — Burton's ' Anatomy 
of Melancholy.' Part z. Sect. 2, Memb. i. Subs. i. 



ISABELLA; 

OR, 

THE POT OF BASIL. 



A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 

I. 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Lovers eye! 
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 



II. 

With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 

He might not in house, field, or garden stir, 
But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 

And his continual voice was pleasanter 
To her, than noise of trees- or hidden rill ; 

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

193 



194 ISABELLA. 

III. 

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 

And from her chamber-window he would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch, 
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies ; 

And with sick longing all the night outwear, 

To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 

IV. 

A whole long month of May in this sad plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : 

" To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 

"To-morrow will I ask my lady"'s boon." — 

" O may I never see another night, 

" Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune."- 

So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 

Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 



V. 

Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 

" How ill she is," said he, " I may not speak, 
" And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 

" If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 

"And at the least 'twill startle off her cares." 



VI. 

So said he one fair morning, and all day 
His heart beat awfully against his side ; 

And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 



ISABELLA. 195 

Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve away — 
Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : ■ 

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild! 



VII. 

So once more he had wakxl and anguished 
A dreary night of love and misery, 

If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 
To every symbol on his forehead high ; 

She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 

And straight all flushed ; so, lisped tenderly, 

" Lorenzo! '' — here she ceas'd her timid quest, 

But in her tone and look he read the rest. 



VIII. 

" O Isabella, I can half perceive 

" That I may speak my grief into thine ear; 
" If thou didst ever any thing believe, 

" Believe how I love thee, believe how near 
" My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 

" Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 
^•' Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live 
" Another night, and not my passion shrive. 



IX. 

" Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold, 
" Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime, 

" And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

" In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.' 

So said, his erewhile lips grew bold. 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 



196 ISABELLA. 

X. 

' Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; 

He with light steps went up a western hill, 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 

XI. 

All close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk. 

Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ah ! better had it been for ever so. 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 



xir. 

Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 
Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 

Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
Too much of pity after they are dead, 

Too many doleful stories do we see. 

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 

Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 



XIII. 

But, for the general award of love, 

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 

Though Dido silent is in under-grove. 
And Isabella's was a great distress. 



ISABELLA. 197 

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 

Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — 
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, 
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 



XIV. 

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 
Enriched from ancestral merchandize, 

And for them many a weary hand did swelt 
In torched mines and noisy factories, 

And many once proud-quiverM loins did melt 
In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 

Many all day in dazzling river stood, 

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 



XV. 

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 
And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 

For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death 
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 

Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark : 

Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel, 

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 



XVI. 

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts 
Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? — 

Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts 
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? — 

Why were they proud? Because red-lin'd accounts 
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years? — 

Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud, 

Why in the name of Glory were they proud? 



198 ISABELLA. 

XVII. 

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, 
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; 

The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 
And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — 

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

XVIII. 

How was it these same ledger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly! 

How could these money-bags see east and west?- 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 



XIX. 

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune. 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 

XX. 

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 

There is no other crime, no mad assail 

To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet 



ISABELLA. T99 

But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
To honor thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 



XXI. 

These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 

And how she lov'd him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad 

That he, the servant of their trade designs. 

Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, 

When Hwas their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 



XXII. 

And many a jealous conference had they. 
And many times they bit their lips alone, 

Before they fix'd upon a surest way 

To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ; 

For they resolved in some forest dim 

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 



XXIII. 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 

Into the sun-rise, o'er the balustrade 
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 

Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 
" You seem there in the quiet of content, 

"Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 
" Calm speculation ; but if you are wise, 
" Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 



200 ISABELLA. 



XXIV. 



" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount 
" To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 

" Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
" His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 

Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 

And went in haste, to get in readiness, 

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 



And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
Each third step did he pause, and listened oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song. 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; 

When, looking up, he saw her features bright 

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 

XXVI. 

" Love, Isabel! " said he, " I was in pain 

" Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : 

" Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 
" I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 

"Of a poor three hours' absence? but we'll gain 
" Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. 

" Good bye! I'll soon be back." — " Good bye! " said 
she: — 

And as he went she chanted merrily. 

XXVII. 

So the two brothers and their murder'd man 
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 



ISABELLA. 20 1 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 

The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 
Lorenzo's flush with love. — They passed the water 
Into a forest quiet for tlie slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 

There in that forest did his great love cease ; 

Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, 
It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 

As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin : 

They dipped their swords in the water, and did tease 

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, 

Each richer by his being a murderer. 

XXIX. 

They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, 

Because of some great urgency and need 
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 

Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; 

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 

And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 



XXX. 

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misery! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moaii, 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
And on her couch low murmuring, "Where? O 
where t " 



202 ISABELLA. 



XXXI 



But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 
Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 
Upon the time with feverish unrest — 

Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 
Of higher occupants, a richer zest, 

Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, 

And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 



In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 



Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
She ask'd her brothers, Vv^ith an eye all pale, 

Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 

Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale 

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 

Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; 

And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 

To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 

XXXIV. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance. 
Which saves a sick man from the feathered pall 



ISABELLA, 203 

For some few gasping moments ; like a lance, 

Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 
With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 



XXXV. 

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 

Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could 
shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. " 

XXXVI. 

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake ; 

For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 
To speak as when on earth it was awake, 

And Isabella on its music hung : 
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 

As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 
And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song. 
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. 

XXXVII. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 

From the poor girl by magic of their light, 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darkened time, — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell. 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 



204 ISABELLA. 



XXXVIII. 



Saying moreover, " Isabel, my sweet! 

" Red whortle-berries droop above my head, 
" And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 

" Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
" Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 

'' Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
'■'■ Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 
" And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 

XXXIX. 

" I am a shadow now, alas! alas ! 

" Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling 
" Alone : I chant alone the holy mass, 

" While little sounds of life are round me knelling, 
" And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, 

" And many a chapel bell the hour is telHng, 
" Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to 

me, 
" And thou art distant in Humanity. 

XL. 

" I know what was, I feel full well what is, 
" And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

" Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 

" That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 

" A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 

" To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ; 

" Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

"A greater love through all my essence steal." 

XLI. 

The Spirit mourned "Adieu! " — dissolved, and left 

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, ' 

Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil. 



ISABELLA. 205 

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
And in the dawn she started up awake ; 



XLII. 

" Ha! ha! " said she, " I knew not this hard life, 
" I thought the worst was simple misery ; 

" I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 
" Portioned us — happy days, or else to die ; 

" But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife! 
" Sweet Spirit, thou hast schooPd my infancy : 

" ril visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 

"And greet thee morn and even in the skies." 

XLIII. 

When the full morning came, she had devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized. 
And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 

How her short absence might be unsurmised, 
While she the inmost of the dream would try. 

Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse, 

And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 



XLIV. 

See, as they creep along the river side, 
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 

And, after looking round the champaign wide. 

Shows her a knife. — "What feverous hectic flame 

" Burns in thee, child ? — What good can thee betide, 
" That thou should'st smile again ? " — The evening 
came, 

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 

The flint was there, the berries at his head. 



2o6 ISABELLA. 



XLV. 



Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard, 
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, 
To see skull, coffined bones, and funeral stole ; 

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, 
And filling it once more with human soul? 

Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI. 

She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though 
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 

Upon the murderous spot she seem"'d to grow, 
Like to a native lily of the dell : 

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 

To dig more fervently than misers can. 



XLVII. 

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies, 

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, 
And put it in her bosom, where it dries 

And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries : 

Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, 

But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 

XLVIII. 

That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 
Until her heart felt pity to the core 

At sight of such a dismal laboring, 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 



ISABELLA. 207 

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: 

Three hours they labored at this travail sore ; 
At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 



XLIX. 

Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? 

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, 

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, 
And tast-e the. music of that vision pale. • 



L. 

With duller steel than the Persian sword 
They cut away no formless monster's head, 

But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

With death, as life. The ancient harps have said. 

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead, 

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 

Twas love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned. 



In anxious secrecy they took it home. 

And then the prize was all for Isabel : 
She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb. 

And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 

With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, 
She drench'd away: — and still she comb'd, and kept 
Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept. 



208 ISABELLA. 

LII. 

Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 

Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 

Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully, — 
She wrapped it up ; and for its tomb did choose 

A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 
And covered it with mould, and o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 

LIII. 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, 
And she forgot the blue above the trees. 

And she forgot the dells where waters^run, 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day was done, 
And the new morn she saw not : but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 

And moistened it with tears unto the core. 

LIV. 

And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew. 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 

Nurture besides, and life, from human fears. 

From the fast mouldering head there shut from 
view : 

So that the jewel, safely casketed, 

Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 



O Melancholy, linger here awhile! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 



ISABELLA. 209 

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 



LVI. 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
And touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead : She withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 



LVII. 

O leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf. 

Among her kindred, wondered that such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 



LVIII. 

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green. 

And why it flourished, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wonderd what the thing might mean : 

They could not surely give belief, that such 
A very nothing would have power to wean 

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 

And even remembrance of her love's delay. 



2IO ISABELLA. 



LIX. 



Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain ; 

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ; 

And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 

Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

LX. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place : 
The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
The guerdon of their murder they had got, 

And so left Florence in a moment's space, 
Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXI. 

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way! " 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 

Asking for her lost Basil amorously : 
And with melodious chuckle in the strings 

Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 



ISABELLA. 211 

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
'Twas hid from her : " For cruel His," said she, 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 



LXIII. 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 

Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the country 
pass'd : 
Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty, 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from me! " 



THE 

EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp''d trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in wooly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orafries. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

III. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his deathbell rung ; 

212 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 213 

The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his souPs reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 



IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 

I The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
. Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Star'd where upon their heads the cornice rests, 

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on 

\ their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs 

gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 



VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 



214 EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Plx'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired; not cooPd by high disdain, 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
year. 

VIII. 

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallowed hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in an^er, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all^amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he riiight gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 215 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's fevVous citadel : 
For him, tliose chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 



XI. 

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this 

place ; 
" They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty 

race! 



"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
" He had a fever late, and in the fit 
" He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
" Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
" More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 
" Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, Gossip dear, 
" We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
"And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not here, 

not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 

bier." 



2l6 EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



He followed through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she mutter'd "Well-a — well-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
" Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
" When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 

^ " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
" Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
" Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
" And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
" To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
"To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
" God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
" This very night : good angels her deceive! 

" But let me laugh awhile, Pve mickle time to 
grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 

While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book, 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 

His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

\ 

XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 217 

Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art : 
" Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
" Alone with her good angels, far apart 
" From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem 
" Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
" When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
"If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
" Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
" Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
" Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
" Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
" And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 

" Ah! why wilt thou afifright a feeble soul? 
"A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
" Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
" Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
"Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 



2i8 EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

While legionM fairies pac'd the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame : 

" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 

" Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 

" Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 

" F'or I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 

" On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 

" Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in 

prayer 
" The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
" Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

XXI. 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame returned, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

xxnT 

Her faltVing hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
I When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
\ Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and 
fled. 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 219 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imagVies 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint dewce, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushM with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 

/ Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 

' She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 

Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 



Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 



220 EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII. 

StoFn to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
And breath'd himself : then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And ^tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast 
she slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguisii'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : _ — 
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 221 



XXX. 



And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
" Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
" Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
"Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans mercy : " 



22 2 EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she utter'd a soft moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affray ed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep 
At which f:iir Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 

" Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 

" Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 

" And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 

"How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and 

drear ! 
" Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
"Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
" Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
" For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes : St. Ap^nes' moon hath set. 



EVE OF ST. AGNES. 223 



XXXVII. 



'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
" Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
"Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
" I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
" Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
" A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 

" Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

" Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil 

dyed? 
" Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
" After so many hours of toil and quest, 
" A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
" Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
" Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
"To trust, fair Madehne, to no rude infidel." 

XXXIX. 

" Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, 
" Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
" Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
" The bloated wassaillers will never heed : — 
" Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
"There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
" Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
"Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 
" For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 



At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide ; 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flaggon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide^ 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLII. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, 
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. 



POEMS. 



y:. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness "pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

CooPd along age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker fall of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

225 



226 POEMS. 



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

5- 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



POEMS. 227 

6. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Caird him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



7- 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep? 



228 POEMS. 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 



Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 

What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 

2. 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 



Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy 'd. 
For ever panting, and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



POEMS. 229 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
What little town by river or sea shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

5- 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



^^ ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
Even into thine own soft-conched ear : 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
The winged Psyche with awakenM eyes? 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly. 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 



230 POEMS. 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; 

Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 
The winged boy I knew ; 

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
His Psyche true ! 
O latest born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre. 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs. 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so far retir'd 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let ms be thy choir, and make a moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming ; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 



POEMS. 231 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant 
pain, 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulPd to sleep ; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same : 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 

To let the warm Love in ! 



FANCY. 

Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her ; 

Open wide the mind's cage-door, 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming ; 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 



232 POEMS. 

Cloys with tasting: What do then? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 

With a mind self-overaw'd, 

Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her! 

She has vassals to attend her : 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear ; 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark! 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw. 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plum'd lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and every flower 



POEMS. 233 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
'1 hen the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
While the autumn breezes sing. 



Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
Every thing is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One w^ould hear so very oft? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 



234 POEMS. 

Quickly break her prison-string 
And such joys as these shell bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new^? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wond'ro 
And the parle of voices thundVous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumbered, never cloying. 



POEMS. 235 

Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new! 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? O generous food! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 



236 POEMS. 

Underneath a new old-sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging w^ith contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



ROBIN HOOD. 

TO A FRIEND. 

No! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have winter's shears. 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more. 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amaz'd to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 



POEMS. 237 

Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan. 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Garaelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the '' grene shawe ; " » 
All are gone away and past! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his turfed grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
FalPn beneath the dockyard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money! 

So it is : yet let us sing. 
Honor to the old bow-string! 
Honor to the bugle-horn! 
Honor to the woods unshorn! 
Honor to the Lincoln Green! 
Honor to the archer keen! 
Honor to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon! 



238 POEMS. 

Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood! 
Honor to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood-clan! 
Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 



TO AUTUMN. 



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run ; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimmM their clammy 
cells. 



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 



POEMS. 239 



Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



t^ 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 



No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissM 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 



2. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
And hides the green hill in an April shroud 



240 POEMS. 

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

VeiPd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



HYPERION. 

A FRAGMENT. 



BOOK I. 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. 

Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, 

Not so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass. 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went. 
No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bow'd head seem'd lisfning to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place ; 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 

241 



242 HYPERION. BOOK i. 

Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low 

With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 

She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 

B/ her in stature the tall Amazon 

Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta^en 

Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 

Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. 

Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 

PedestaPd haply in a palace court, 

When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 

But oh! how unlike marble was that face : 

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 

Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 

There was a listening fear in her regard, 

As if calamity had biit begun ; 

As if the vanward clouds of evil days 

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 

Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 

One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 

Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 

Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 

The other upon Saturn's bended neck 

She laid, and to the level of his ear 

Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 

In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 

Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 

Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 

To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 

" Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor old King? 

" I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 

" I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou? ' 

'•'■ For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 

" Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 

" And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, 

" Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 

" Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 

" Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 

" Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 

" And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 



BOOK I. HYPERION. 243 

" Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
** O aching time! O moments big as years! 
" All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
" And press it so upon our weary griefs 
" That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
" Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I 
"Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? 
" Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
" Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep." 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods. 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, . 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off. 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touched her fair large forehead to the ground, 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night, 
And still these two were postured motionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
The frozen God still couchant on the earth, 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone. 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place. 
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake, 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
" O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
" Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
" Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
" Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
" Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
" Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow. 



244 HYPERION. BOOK i. 

" Naked and bare of its great diadem, 

" Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 

'' To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 

" How was it nurtured to such bursting forth, 

" While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp ? 

" But it is so ; and I am smothered up, 

" And buried from all godlike exercise 

" Of influence benign on planets pale, 

" Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 

" Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 

" And all those acts which Deity supreme 

" Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 

*' Away from my own bosom : I have left 

" My strong identity, my real self, 

" Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 

" Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search! 

"Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 

'• Upon all space : space starred, and lorn of light ; 

" Space region'd with life-air ; and barren void ; 

" Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. — 

" Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest 

" A certain shape or shadow, making way 

" With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 

" A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 

" Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 

" Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 

" There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets 

blown 
" Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
" Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 
" Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
" Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
'' Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
" Of the sky-children ; I will give command : 
"Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?" 

This passion lifted him upon his feet, 
And made his hands to struggle in the air. 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat. 



BOOK I. HYPERION. 245 

His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 

He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep ; 

A little time, and then again he snatch'd 

Utterance thus. — "But cannot I create? 

"Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth 

"Another world, another universe, 

"To overbear and crumble this to nought? 

" Where is another chaos ? Where ? " — That word 

Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 

The rebel three. — Thea was startled up, 

And in her bearing was a sort of hope, 

As thus she quick-voic'd spake, yet full of awe. 

" This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends, 
" O Siturn! come away, and give them heart ; 
" I know the covert, for thence came I hither."" 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space : 
He followed, and she turn'd to lead the way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 
The Titans tierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
Groaned for the old allegiance once more, 
And listened in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty; — 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snuflf 'd the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God ; yet unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he — 
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech, 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell. 



246 HYPERION. BOOK I. 

Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 

But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve, 

Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright 

Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold. 

And touched with shade of bronzed obelisks, 

Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts, 

Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 

And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 

Flushed angerly : while sometimes eagle^^s wings, 

Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 

Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were heard, 

Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. 

Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths 

Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills, 

Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 

Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick : 

And so, when harbor'd in the sleepy west, 

After the fall completion of fair day, — 

For rest divine upon exalted couch 

And slumber in the arms of melody, 

He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease 

With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 

While far within each aisle and deep recess, 

His winged minions in close clusters stood, 

Amaz'd and fall of fear ; like anxious men 

Who on wide plains gather in panting troops. 

When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 

Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 

Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 

Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear. 

Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 

Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 

In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes, 

Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 

And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies; 

And like a rose in vermeil tiiit and shape, 

In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 

That inlet to severe magnificence 

Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 



BOOK I. HYPERION. 247 

He entered, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scar'd away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared, 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades, 
Until he reached the great main cupola ; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot. 
And from the basements deep to the high towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas'd, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb. 
To this result : " O dreams of day and night ! 
"O monstrous forms! O efiigies of paini 
"O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom! 
"O lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools! 
"Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why 
" Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
"To see and to behold these horrors new? 
" Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall? 
" Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
" This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 
" This calm luxuriance of blissful light, 
" These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
"Of all my lucent empire? It is left 
" Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
" The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 
"I cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
" Even here, into my centre of repose, 
" The shady visions come to domineer, 
" Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. — 
"Fall! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes! 
" Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
" I will advance a terrible right arm 
" Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 
"And bid old Saturn take his throne again." — 
He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat 



248 HYPERION. BOOK I. 

Held struggle with his throat but came not forth ; 

For as in theatres of crowded men 

Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!" 

So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 

Bestirred themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 

And from the mirror'd level where he stood 

A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 

At this, through all his bulk an agony 

Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown, 

Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 

Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 

From over-strained might. Released, he fled 

To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 

Before the dawn in season due should blush. 

He breathM fierce breath against the sleepy portals, 

Cleared them of heavy vapors, burst them wide 

Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 

The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 

Each day from east to west the heavens through, 

Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; 

Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 

But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 

Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 

Glovv'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark 

Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 

Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 

Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 

Then living on the earth, with laboring thought 

Won from the gaze of many centuries : 

Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 

Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone. 

Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this orb 

Possessed for glory, two fair argent wings, 

Ever exalted at the God's approach : 

And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense 

Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 

While still the dazzling globe maintained eclipse, 

Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 

Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 



BOOK I. HYPERION. 249 

And bid the day begin, if but for change. 

He might not : — No, though a primeval God : 

The sacred seasons might not be disturbed. 

Therefore the operations of the dawn 

Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 

Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 

Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 

Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 

And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes, 

Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent 

His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 

And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 

Upon the boundaries of day and night, 

He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint. 

There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 

Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 

Of Coelus, from the universal space, 

Thus whispered low and solemn in his ear. 

" O brightest of my children dear, earth-born 

"And sky-engendered, Son of Mysteries 

"All unrevealed even to the powers 

" Which met at thy creating ; at whose joys 

"And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 

" I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence ; 

" And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 

" Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine, 

" Manifestations of that beauteous life 

" DitTus''d unseen throughout eternal space : 

" Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child! 

" Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses! 

" There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 

"Of son against his sire. 1 saw him fall, 

"I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne! 

" To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 

"Found way from forth the thunders round his head! 

" Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my face. 

"Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear there is: 

" For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 

" Divine ye were created, and divine 



250 HYPERION. BOOK I. 

" In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturbM, 
" Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv'd and ruled : 
" Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ; 
" Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
" I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
"In men who die. — This is the grief, O Son! 
" Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
" Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable, 
" As thou canst move about, an evident God ; 
"And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
" Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 
" My life is but the life of winds and tides, 
," No more than winds and tides can I avail : — 
" But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van 
" Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
" Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth! 
" For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 
" Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, 
" And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — ■ 
Ere half this region-whisper had come down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceas'd ; and still he kept them wide : 
And still they were the same bright, patient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore. 
And plung'd all noiseless into the deep night. 



HYPERION. 



BOOK II. 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings 

Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 

And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place 

Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd. 

It was a den where no insulting light 

Could glimmer on their tears ; where their own groans 

They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 

Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse, 

Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 

Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 

Ever as if just rising from a sleep. 

Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 

And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 

Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 

Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 

Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 

Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled : 

Some chained in torture, and some wandering. 

Coeus, and Gyges, and Briarelis, 

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 

With many more, the brawniest in assault, 

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 

Dungeon^ in opaque element, to keep 

Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs 

Locked up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd ; 

Without a motion, save of their big hearts 

Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd 

251 



252 HYPERION. BOOK! 

With sanguiire feverous boiling gurge of pulse. 

Mnemosyne was straying in the world; 

Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered ; 

And many else were free to roam abroad, 

But for the main, here found they covert drear. 

Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 

Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 

Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor, 

When the chill rain begins at shut of eve, 

In dull November, and their chancel vault, 

The Heaven itself, is bhnded throughout night. 

Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbor gave 

Or word, or look, or action of despair. 

Creiis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 

Lay by him, and a shatter^ rib of rock 

Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined. 

lapetus another ; in his grasp, 

A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 

Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurPd length 

Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 

Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 

Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost, 

As though in pain ; for still upon the flint 

He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 

And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 

Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 

Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 

Though feminine, than any of her sons : 

More thought than woe was in her dusky face, 

For she was prophesying of her glory ; 

And in her wide imagination stood 

Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, 

By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 

Even as Hope upon her anchor leans, 

So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 

Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 

Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 

Upon his elbow rais'd, all prostrate else, 

Shadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and mild 



BOOK II. HYPERION'. 253 

As grazing ox unworried in the meads ; 

Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoiighted, wroth, 

He meditated, plotted, and even now 

Was hurling mountains in that second war, 

Not long delayed, that scar'd the younger Gods 

To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 

Nor far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 

Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbored close 

Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 

Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 

In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 

Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 

No shape distinguishable, more than when 

Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds: 

And many else whose names may not be told. 

For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread, 

Who shall delay her flight? And she must chaunt 

Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb''d 

With damp and slippery footing from a depth 

More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 

Their heads appeared, and up their stature grew 

Till on the level height their steps found ease : 

Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 

Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 

And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face : 

There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 

At war with all the frailty of grief, 

Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, 

Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 

Against these plagues he strove in vain ; for Fate 

Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 

A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 

AiTrighted, kept her still, and let him pass 

First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 

As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more, 
When it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 



254 HYPERION. BOOK ii. 

So Saturn, as he walked into the midst, 

Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 

But that he met Enceladus's eye, 

Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 

Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 

" Titans, behold your God! " at which some groanM ; 

Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 

Some wept, some waiPd, all bow'd with reverence ; 

And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 

Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan, 

Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 

There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 

When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise 

Among immortals when a God gives sign, 

With hushing finger, how he means to load 

His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought, 

With thunder, and with music, and with pomp : 

Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 

Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world. 

No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here. 

Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 

Grew up like organ, that begins anew 

Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short, 

Leave the dinned air vibrating silverly. 

Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad breast, 

" Which is its own great judge and searcher out, 

" Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 

" Not in the legends of the first of days, 

" Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 

"Which starry Uranus with finger bright 

" Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when the waves 

" Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ; — 

" And the which book ye know I ever kept 

" For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm! 

" Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 

" Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 

" At war, at peace, or inter-quarreling 

" One against one, or two, or three, or all 

" Each several one against the other three, 



BOOK II. HYPERION. 255 

" As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 

" Drown both, and press them both against earth's face, 

" Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 

" Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 

" Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep, 

" Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 

"No, no-where can unriddle, though I search, 

" And pore on Nature's universal scroll 

" Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities, 

" The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 

" Should cower beneath what, in comparison, 

" Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 

" O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here! 

" O Titans, shall I say ' Arise ! ' — Ye groan : 

" Shall I say ' Grouch ! ' — Ye groan. What can I then ? 

"O Heaven wide! O unseen parent dear! 

" What can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 

" How we can war, how engine our great wrath! 

" O speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 

" Is all a-hungerd. Thou, Oceanus, 

" Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

'• I see, astonied, that severe content 

" Which comes of thought and musing : give us help! " 

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades, 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began. 
In murmurs, which his first-endeavoring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion-stung, 
" Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
" Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
" My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
" Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
" How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
" And in the proof much comfort will I give, 
" If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
" We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 



256 HYPERION. BOOK II. 

" Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 

" Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 

" But for this reason, that thou art the King, 

*' And only blind from sheer supremacy, 

" One avenue was shaded from thine eyes, 

"Through which I wandered to eternal truth. 

" And first, as thou wast not the first of powers, 

" So art thou not the last ; it cannot be : 

"Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 

" From chaos and parental darkness came 

" Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil, 

" That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 

"Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came, 

" And with it light, and light, engendering 

" Upon its own producer, forthwith touched 

" The whole enormous matter into life. 

" Upon that very hour, our parentage, 

" The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : 

" Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, 

" Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 

" Now comes the pain of truth, to whom His pain ; 

" O folly! for to bear all naked truths, 

" And to envisage circumstance, all calm, 

" That is the top of sovereignty, Mark well! 

"As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 

" Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs ; 

" And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 

"In form and shape compact and beautiful, 

"In will, in action free, companionship, 

" And thousand other signs of purer life ; 

" So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 

" A power more strong in beauty, born of us 

" And fated to e-xcel us, as we pass 

"In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 

" Thereby more conquered, than by us the rule 

" Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 

" Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, 

" And feedeth still, more comely than itself i* 

" Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 



BOOK II. HYPER I CN. 257 

"Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
" Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
" To wander wherewithal and find its joys? 
" We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
" Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves. 
" But eagles golden-feather''d, who do tower 
" Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
" In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law 
" That first in beauty should be first in might : 
" Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
" Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
" Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
"My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face? 
" Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 
" By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 
"I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
" With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
" That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
" To all my empire : farewell sad I took, 
" And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
" Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
" Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
" Receive the truth, and let it be your balm." 

Whether through poz'd conviction, or disdain, 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell? 
But so it was, none answered for a space. 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene ; 
And yet she answered not, only complained, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" O Father, I am here the simplest voice, 
" And all my knowledge is that joy is gone, 
" And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 
" There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
" I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
" So weak a creature could turn off the help 
" Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 



258 HYPERION. 



BOOK II. 



" Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 

" Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 

" And know that we had parted from all hope. 

" I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 

" Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 

" Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 

" Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; 

" Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; 

" So that I felt a movement in my heart 

" To chide, and to reproach that solitude 

" With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 

" And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 

" And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 

" O melody no more! for while I sang, 

" And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 

" The dull shelPs echo, from a bowery strand 

"Just opposite, an island of the sea, 

" There came enchantment with the shifting wind, 

" That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 

" I threw my shell away upon the sand, 

" And a wave filPd it, as my sense was filPd 

"With that new blissful golden melody. 

" A living death was in each gush of sounds, 

" Each family of rapturous hurried notes, 

" That fell, one after one, yet all at once, 

" Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string : 

" And then another, then another strain, 

" Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 

" With music wing'd instead of silent plumes, 

" To hover round my head, and make me sick 

" Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame, 

" And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 

" When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, 

" A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, 

" And still it cried, ' Apollo! young Apollo! 

" ' The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo! ' 

" I fled, it followed me, and cried ' Apollo! ' 

" O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 

" Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst thou felt, 



BOOK II. HYPERION. 259 

" Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
" Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard." 

So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
And shuddered ; for the overwhelming voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallowed it in wrath : 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
" Or shall we listen to the over-wise, 
" Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
" Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
" That rebel Jove's whole armory were spent, 
" Not world on world upon these shoulders piled, 
" Could agonize me more than baby-words 
" In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
"Speak! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all. 
"Do ye forget the blows, the buiTets vile? 
" Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
"Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 
"Thy scalding in the seas? What, have I roused 
" Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
" O joy! for now I see ye are not lost : 
" O joy! for now I see a thousand eyes 
"Wide glaring for revenge! " — As this he said, 
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus : 
" Now ye are flames, Pll tell you how to burn, 
" And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
" How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire, 
" And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 
" Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
" O let him feel the evil he hath done ; 
" For though I scorn Oceanus'.s lore, 
" Much pain have I for more than loss of realms : 
" The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 



26o HYPERION. BOOK I 

" Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 

" When all the fair Existences of heaven 

'' Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : - 

" That was before our brows were taught to frown, 

" Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 

" That was before we knew the winged thing, 

" Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 

" And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 

" Oar brightest brother, still is undisgraced — 

"Hyperion, lo! his radiance is here!" 

All eyes were on Enceladus's face, 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion^s name 
Flew from his lips up -to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern : 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all, 
And in each face he saw a gleam of light. 
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remained. 
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn. 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
All the sad spaces of oblivion, 
And every gulf, and every chasm old, 
And every height, and every sullen depth. 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 
And all the everlasting cataracts. 
And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade. 
Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 
His bright feet touched, and there he stay'd to view 
The misery his brilliance had betray'd 
To the most hateful seeing of itself. 
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl. 
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 



BOOK II. 



HYPERION. 261 



Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 

To one who travels from the dusking East : 

Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp 

He utter'd, while his hands contemplative 

He pressed together, and in silence stood. 

Despondence seiz'd again the fallen Gods 

At sight of the dejected King of Day, 

And many hid their faces from the light : 

But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 

Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too, 

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 

To where he towered on his eminence. 

There those four shouted forth old Saturn ^s name; 

Hyperion from the peak loud answered, " Saturn!" 

Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 

In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 

Gave from their hollow throats the name of " Saturn ! " 



HYPERION. 



BOOK III. 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 
Amazed were those Titans utterly. 
O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes; 
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 
A solitary sorrow best befits 
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find 
Many a fallen old Divinity 
Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 
And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 
In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 
For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 
Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue, 
Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 
And let the clouds of even and of morn 
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 
Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd shells, 
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn 
Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 
Chief isle of the embowered C)'clades, 
Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song. 
And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade 
262 



BOOK III. HYPERION. 263 

Apollo is once more the golden theme! 

Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 

Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers? 

Together had he left his mother fair 

And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 

And in the morning twilight wandered forth 

Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 

The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars 

Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 

Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 

There was no covert, no retired cave 

Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, 

Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 

He listened, and he wept, and his bright tears 

Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 

Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 

While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 

With solemn step an awful Goddess came. 

And there was purport in her looks for him, 

Which he with eager guess began to read 

Perplexed, the while melodiously he said : 

" How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea? 

" Or hath that antique mien and robed form 

"MovM in these vales invisible till now? 

" Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 

" The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 

"In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 

"The rustle of those ample skirts about 

" These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 

" Lift up their heads, as still the whisper passed. 

"Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before, 

" And their eternal calm, and all that face, 

"Or I have dream'd." — "Yes,'' said the supreme 

shape, 
" Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking up 
" Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, 
" Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast 
*' Unwearied ear of the whole universe 



264 HYPERION. BOOK III. 

" Listened in pain and pleasure at the birth 

" Of such new tuneful wonder, Is't not strange 

" That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youth, 

"What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 

"When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs 

" To one who in this lonely isle hath been 

" The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 

" From the young day when first thy infant hand 

"Plack'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 

" Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 

" Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 

"Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 

" For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 

"Of loveliness new born." — Apollo then, 

With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, 

Thus answered, while his white melodious throat 

Throbbed with the syllables. — " xMnemosyne! 

" Thy name is on my tongae, I know not how ; 

"Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? 

" Why should I strive to shovv what from thy lips 

" Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark, 

"And painfal vile oblivion seals my eyes : 

" I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, 

" Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 

" And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, 

" Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 

" Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the liegeless air 

"Yields to my step asoirant? why should I 

" Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet? 

" Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing : 

" Are there not other regions than this isle? 

"What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! 

"And the most patient brilliance of the moon! 

"And stars by thousands! Point me out the way 

" To any one particular beauteous star, 

" And I will flit into it with my lyre, 

"And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. 

" I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is power ? 

"Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 



HYPERION. 265 



" While I here idle listen on the shores 

" In fearless yet in aching ignorance? 

" O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, 

" That waileth every morn and eventide, 

"Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves! 

"Mute thou remainest — Mute! yet I can read 

" A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 

"Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 

" Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, 

"Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 

" Creations and destroyings, all at once 

"Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 

"And deify me, as if some blithe wine 

" Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 

"And so become immortal." — Thus the God, 

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 

Beneath his white soft temples, stedtast kept 

Trembhng with light upon Mnemosyne. 

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs ; 

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 

Or liker still to one who should take leave 

Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 

Die into life : so young Apollo anguished ; 

His very hair, his golden tresses famed 

Kept undulation round his eager neck. 

During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 

Apollo shrieked ; — and lo! from all his limbs 

Celestial ******* 



THE END. 



POSTHUMA. 



I. 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
Before high piled books, in charact'ry, 

Hold Hke rich garners the fulI-ripenM grain ; 
When I behold, upon the nighf s starred face, 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! 

That I shall never look upon thee more. 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love! — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 



II. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree. 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them, 

With a sleety whistle through them 

Nor frozen thawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

267 



268 PO STRUMA. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubbhngs ne'er remember 
Apollo's smiimer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. ^ 

Ah ! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy? 
To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it. 
Was never said in rhyme. 



III. 

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! 

And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, 

And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes, 

And let me breathe into the happy air. 

That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 

Vows of my slavery, my giving up, 

My sudden adoration, my great love! 

IV. 
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. 

BALLAD. 



O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 
Alone and palely loitering? 

The sedge has withered from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 



POSTHUMA. 269 

II. 

what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 

The squirrers granary is full, 
And the harvest's done. 

III. 

1 see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 



IV. 

I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful — a faery's child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light. 



And her eyes were wild. 



I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She looked at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 



VI. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long, 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery's song. 



VII. 



She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew, 

And sure in language strange she said 
" I love thee true." 



270 POSTHUMA. 



VIII. 



She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

With kisses four. 



IX. 



And there she lulled me asleep. 

And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 

On the cold hill's side. 



X. 



I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!" 



XI. 



I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke and found me here, 
On the cold hill's side. 



XII. 



And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering. 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 



POSTHUMA. 271 

V. 

THE HUMAN SEASONS. 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook; 
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



VI. 

ON FAME. 
I. 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 

To those who woo her with too slavish knees, 
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, 

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
She is a Gipsey, — will not speak to those 

Who have not learnt to be content without her ; 
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close, 

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her 
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ; 
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn; 

Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are! 
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 



2 72 POSTHUMA. 

VII. 

ON FAME. 

II. 

" You cannot eat your cake and have it too." — Proverb. 

How fever'd is the man, who cannot look 

Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, 
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, 

And robs his fair name of its maidenhood ; 
It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 

Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, 
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, 

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom : 
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar. 

For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, 
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, 

The undisturbed lake has crystal space ; 

Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, 

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed ? 

VIII. 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art — 

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 

Jfinis. 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

I John Keats, born Oct. 29, 1795, died Feb. 23, 1821, published his 
first volume in 1817. It is dated — "London: Printed for C. & J. 
Oilier, 3, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square." The title-page (in 
addition to the foregoing and to the reprint on p. xi) bears the woodcut 
of a laurelled head in profile, which may be meant foT Spenser. The 
text, preceded by three leaves, covers 121 pages in small octavo 
size. 

II Endymioii bears on the title (in addition to the reprint on p. 55) 
" By John Keats. London: Printed for Taylor and Hessey, 93, 
Fleet Street. 1818." Five leaves, in the example before me, precede 
the text, which (including titles before each book), extends to 207 
pages. " Handsomely printed in [a largish-sizedj Bvo. price gs. 
boards," says the Advertisement appended to the next volume. 

III Lamia etc., in addition to the reprint on p. 169, bears " By 
John Keats, author of Endymion. London: Printed for Taylor and 
Hessey, Fleet-Street, 1820." Four leaves precede the text, which 
(iiicludmg separate titles for Lamia, Isabella, The Eve 0/ Si. Agnes, 
and Poems), covers 199 pages in an octavo size between that of the 
two former volumes. 

Lastly, I was printed by C. Richards, 18, Warwick Street, Golden 
Square, London; II by T. Miller, Noble Street, Cheapside; III by 
Thomas Davison, Whitefriars. 



PAGE 

xiii Glory and loveliness: This Dedicatory Sonnet was written in 
1817, whilst the volume was in cour.se of printing. The acquaint- 
ance of Keats with Leigh Hunt, ten or eleven years his senior, 
had begun by 1816. It is doubtful whether the Poet gained on 
the whole by the familiarity — (for, on his side, it does not seem to 
me to have risen to real Iriendship) — which followed. Hunt was 
at the least satisfactory stage of his long life, a State prosecution 
for a violently personal attack on the Prince Regent having just 
converted him, in his own eyes and those of his friends, into a 
political martyr, as the harsh criticism of the day had raised him 
mto the literary idol of a coterie. The " self-delusion " he enter- 

27s 



276 



NOTES. 



tained that he was a great poet, struck Keats, ^- a man of much 
stronger nature, and wholly free from such weakness, — as " lam- 
entable," so early as May, 1817. In December, 1818, writing 
to his brother George, he describes Hunt as " a pleasant enough 
fellow in the main, when you are with him; but in reality he 
is vain, egotistic. . . . Hunt d )es one harm by making fine 
things pretty, and beautiful things hateful; through him I am 
indifferent to Mozart, . . . and many a glorious thing when asso- 
ciated with him becomes nothing " Some of the gloom of his 
last years had fallen on Keats when he wrote thus; yet the picture 
is confirmed in too many ways to be essentially doubtful. On 
the other hand, Hiuit's affection for Keats was real; he had genu- 
ine tenderness of nature, and strong, though narrow, literary 
enthusiasm. Had his younger friend lived, he would doubtless 
have done justice to those fine qualities in Hunt which, as his 
West Indian blood calmed d^wn, freed themselves, more or less, 
from their youthful alloy of vanity and intemperateness, during 
the latter half of his life. 

Despite the clear insight into those faults of taste in Hunt 
which the preceding extract shows, the style of Keats, in his 
eailier work especially, was in some degree influenced by the 
elder poet. He seems to owe to him a rather frequent and un- 
pieasing mannerism in the use of the word luxury : and the 
Ri}niiii ■And. Hero and Leaiider ^\\\\h'\\. sudden lapses into pro- 
saicism, words used with an abrupt or even co<rse directness, 
strange momentary failures in good taste, from which Keats, also, 
is not always free. Beyond this, there is little in common be- 
tween the two writers: the similarity, in case of the poems just 
named, is only a superficial likeness of manner. Where Keats is 
penetrative. Hunt is decorative: his work is formed on Dryden, 
but Dryden ornamentalized and without his vigor. It was to 
very different results that Keats studied the great Fabulist for 
Lamia. 

In regard to the volume of 1817, it may be noted here, in Lord 
Houghton's words, that " this little book, the beloved first-born 
of so great a genius, scarcely touched the public attention." 

This nameless Poem, to judge by its style and matter, may be 
safely placed amongst the latest-written pieces in the volume of 
1817, and was, doubtless, chosen by Keats as a kind of" Induc- 
tion," (to use the fine Elizabethan word with which he entitled 
the piece next following), to his little venture. Rut we miy take 
it also as a fit preface to the work which his short life enabled 
him to give us: — presenting, as it does, two of the leading colors 
or motives th It appear throushotu his poetrv, — the passion for 
pure natnre-nainting, and the love for Hellenic myths, treated, 
not as the Greeks themselves treated them, hut with a lavish 
descriptiveness whi'^h belongs to the English Renaissance move- 
ment, as represented in the Faerie Queene, and with a strong 
tinge of the still more modern movement, which is intelligibly 
summed up under the name Romantic. Upon both of these 
dominant features in Keats I propose to add a few words later on. 
Meanwhile, we may remark that already the tale of Endymion 



NOTES. 277 

PAGE 

I had seized on the Poet's imagination, and that his later treatment 
of it is shadowed forth, in essentials, in the six final paragraphs of 
this lovely poem. 

Two other notable characteristics of Keats should be also ob- 
served: his chivalrous devotion to Woman, which is in close 
analogy with the tone of Milton in the Co}iins2iV\A x\\& Farticiisc , 
and his singular gift in closeness and accuracy of descriptive 
characterization. Here he far surpa.'sses Spenser, whose land- 
scape, like that of the painters of his age, is seen always thnnigh 
a generalizing medium of literature and of human interest, and 
wants, as a rule, those touches, so frequent in Keats that it would 
be idle to quote them, which testify to immediate contact with and 
inspiration from Nature. If, however, the young Poet has here 
a point of superiority (due, in part, to the influence of his age), 
his landscape falls short of the landscape of Shelley in its com- 
parative absence of the larger features of sky and earth: it is 
foreground work in which he excels; whilst again, in compari- 
son with Wordsworth, Keats rests satisfied with exquisitely true 
delineation, and has little thought (thus far) of allying Nature 
with human sympathy; still less, of penetrating and rendering her 
deeper eternal significance. 

5 1. 23 What first inspired: It was fortunate for Keats and for 
us that, when devising the pretty fancy which he here gives as 
the possible origin of the Narcissus legend, he was not hampered 
by the often trivial and prosaic elements, etymological or ethno- 
logical, with which the (thus far, at least) inchoate and hypo- 
thetical Science of Comparative Mythology has of late years dulled 
the beautiful legends of Hellas. 

7 If the attraction of the Grecian world to Keats is represented 
in the preceding poem, this hidnctioii and Calidore represent 
the influence of his first love in poetry, — Spenser; nor, amongst 
the many pieces in Spenser's style which the magic of that gieat 
Master has called forth in our literature, are there any more com- 
pletely imbued with the picturesque side of his genius. 

9 1. 18 thy lovd Libertas : a name under which Keats, in this 
first volume, euphemistically signifies Leigh Hunt. There is, 
however, no nearer affinity between Hunt and Spenser in regard 
to their respective gifts in poetry, than between Spenser's severe 
Elizabethan politics, pushing justice itself into injustice, and the 
other's vague emotional creed: — between the almost ascetic lofti- 
ness of manhood which underlies the Faerie Qiceene, and the 
slipshod morality of Ritniiii and Hero. 

9 Calidore may be a rather earlier piece than the two which 
precede it; — the use of elegantly, of soft luxury, the shining 
quite transcendent, all belong to the mannerisms which the 
poet's boyhood had learned from his first English contemporary 
models, and are in curious contrast with the penetrative insight 
shown in the descriptions of the sequester'd leafy glades, the 
palfreys slanting out their ttecks, the /^r heard irunipi i\ tone, 
or the voice of the good knight, — audible 



278 NOTES. 



9 like something from beyond 

His present being. 

It is the essence of chivalry — its picturesqueness, its tender- 
ness to woman, its manly elevation, which we already find in this 
Fragment. But the tale itself is yet wanting; — we have the 
artist's palette, rather than his picture. — P. 11, 1. 9 cat^s eyes: 
Country name for the Speedwell, Veronica Chamaedrys, Linn. 

14 To some Ladies : This and the next two poems, without the aid 
given by the note on p. xiv, might, upon internal evidence of 
manner, be s ifely referred to the earliest surviving work of Keats, 
written perhaps before he was twenty, or had fully resigned himself 
to the magic of Spenser. The style here is manifestly formed on 
the model of the " elegant" writers of the beginning of this century, 
whose influence is similarly perceptible in the first poems of Byron 
or Moore. And it is curious to note how wholly difl'erent is the 
effect between the picture of the knight given us in Calidore, 
(with all its immaturity in writing), and that given in the stanzas 
before us (p. 15, 16) : — how, in place of the chivalric melody and 
colors of Spenser, we have something not far removed from melo- 
dramatic tinsel, nor free from descent into simple prosaicism. 

14 1. 29 Mrs. Tighe (died 1810) is still faintly remembered as authoress 
of" Psyche, or The Legend of Love," six cantos in the metre of 
the Faerie Qiieene, a poem popular when Keats wrote, and 
which is in truth a really graceful piece of pure and delicate 
work. It might be a short lyric '' written for her niece," and 
published in 1816, which is here alluded to as "the blessings of 
Tighe." I give the first lines: — 

Sweetest! if thy fairy hand 

Culls for me the latest flowers, 
Smiling hear me thus demand 

Blessings for thy early hours. 

But, if so, the poem, (or the stanza), can hardly belong to the 
earliest work of Keats. 

In St. ii, 1. 2, 4, the rhyme in the poet's mind answering to 
bedews was probably muse. 

17 Hadst thou lived : An early effort, perhaps, in the beautiful 
metre, (rarely seen in our serious poetry since Milton's youth, 
probably from its great difficulty), brought to perfection by Keats 
in his last volume. 

20 This Imitation is the earliest known poem by Keats, according 
to Lord Houghton, who dates it in 1812. A somewhat later date 
would appear to me more probable. 

21 Woman : What union of manly sense and exquisite tenderness, 

— not without amusing boyish candor, — in these three- Sonnets! 

— which, for chivalrous devotion and picturesqueness, I would 
class between the best of Dante and Petrarch. There are here 
faults of taste, doubtless, due to early youth and the bad example 



NOTES. 279 



21 of some among the models by whom Keats was then influenced: 
but they will be pardoned easily not only by the lovers of poetry 
itself, but by those who know how strangely rare, in our recent 
verse, is the note of disinterested passion. — "One saying of 
yours," he says, in a letter of 23 Jan. 1818 to his friend Mr. Bailey, 
" I shall never forget: you may not recollect it: . . . merely you 
said, ' Why should woman suffer? ' Aye, why should she? ' By 
heavens, I'd coin my very soul, and drop my blood for drachmas! ' 
I'hese things are, and he, who feels how incompetent the most 
skyey knight-errantry is, to heal this bruised fairness, is like a 
sensitive leaf on the hot hand of thought." — But this is a noble 
sensitiveness. 

23 G. F. Mathew : An early friend of Keats, described by Lord 
Houghton as " of high literary merit." 

23 1. 17 far different cares : His surgical training between 1810 
and 1817. 

26 George Keats : Elder brother to John : died in Kentucky, 
1841. 

28 1. 25 The pearls: Apparently, Tears arise from the very 
pleasure of smiling. 

29 1. 18 The scarlet-coats : So in a letter from Carisbrooke (Ap. 
17, 1817) Keats remarks: " On the road from Cowes to Newport 
I saw some extensive Barracks, which disgusted me extremely 
with the Government for placing such a nest of debauchery in so 
beautiful a place. I asked a man on the coach about this, and he 
said that the people had been spoiled." 

30 C. C. Clarke : Son to the master of the school at Enfield 
where Keats was educated till the summer of 1810. Mr. Clarke, 
who was a man of considerable literary accomplishment, died in 
1877. 

— 1. 33 iy Miilla's stream : The reference is to Spenser. — The criti- 
cal estimates of poetry given here (whilst never falling below the 
high level of imaginative, as opposed to epigrammatic, verse) are 
of singular truth and beauty: note especially the "and more, 
Miltonian tenderness" / a feature in that great Poet which is 
often overlooked. 

32 1. 38 divine Mozart : Keats here, as usual, shows his true Poet's 
intuition. Of all musicians, Mozart is the one in whom the pas- 
sion for beauty, the cry of humanity, are most eminent, most 
constantly audible. Hence the supremacy naturally and rightly 
assigned to him. 

34 I 1. 3 laurel' d peers : Spirits of heroes dead? 

35 HI The day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison : 3 Feb. 1815. 
To this fortunate incarceration Hunt has owed no small part of 
his later celebrity: — although its direct result, — his politico- 
literary alliance with Lord Byron, — was unsatisfactory for both. 
For this. Hunt, in his Autobiography, generously if justly, takes 
the blame to himself. 



2 8o NOTES. 

PAGE 

36 V To a Friend : Charles Wells, — who gave in his early 
poem Joseph and his Brethren, a promise which was never 
fulfilled, — with Joseph Severn, to the last the faithful friend of 
Keats, overlived him to 1879. 

39 XI Chapman's fine paraphrase was put before Keats by his 
friend C. C. Clarke, and they sat up together till daylight to read 
it: "Keats shouting with delight as some passage of especial 
energy struck his imagination. At ten o'clock the next morning, 
Mr. Clarke found the sonnet on his breakfast- table." 

40 XIl 1. 7 diamond jar : Meant to express the flashing of dia- 
monds as they move and clash? 

41 XIV That frequent absence of prophetic insight as to the future 
fame of contemporaries which marks not a few of Spenser's judg- 
ments on his fellow-poets in the magnificent Colin Clout, is 
shared by Keats in this Sonnet. Time, indeed, " the wisest 
witness," has confirmed the verdict given upon Wordsworth: but 
Hunt, despite his real merits, is far too wanting in good taste 
and in power, to deserve the "collateral glory" here assigned: 
whilst of Haydon we may now say, when the sad story of his life 
lies far behind us, that the pictures which he left testify to inborn 
incapacity for valid success in the art to which he devoted himself 
with unhappily mistaken ardor and perseverance: — 

ibi omnis Efifusus labor! 

42 XVI 1. 7 And : Are is corjicturally read in the Aldine text. 
If conjecture be needed, I would retain And, inserting are before 

ever. 

43 Sleep and Poetry: This fine, though unequal, soliloquy was 
manifestly intended by Keats to form the Epilogue to his first 
venture, as the " I stood" (p. 1) is the young poet's Prologue. 
A more sincere avowal was never made. We see here with what 
modest self-consciousness, how truly, he understood his art: — It 
alone would justify me (were justification needed), for this literal 
reprint of the text which passed before his clear and sensitive eyes. 

Keats here shows that whilst yielding, (as in the Epistles and 
other pieces which begin the volume of 1817), to the pleasure of 
frank and simple description of Nature, he was aware how Poetry, 
in the high and serious sense with which all who deserve to be 
called Poets always regard their art, must have far other and 
higher aims; 

— the agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts: — 

that Beauty alone, even to this Poet of the Beautiful, is insufficient. 
And if the "real things" of contemporary life press on him, 
bearing his soul down " to nothingness," he thinks of the great 
imaginative literature of England before the critical period of 
comparative coldness in the years of the latter Stuarts and the 
eighteenth century (symbolized here by Boileau), and gaiiis 
strength and "delightful hopes": — destined, even during his 
short life, to how noble a fulfilment! 

The concluding lines describe Leigh Hunt's library in his little 
house at Hampstead. 



NOTES. 281 

I'AGE 

49 1. 6 my boundly reverence : Boundly seems an invention by 
Keats to signify what he felt bound to give. 

49 1. 27-32 These lines are harshly and obscurely expressed: Keats 
appears to be thinking of certain " themes" unfit for imaginative 
literature, which had tempted, — or might tempt, — his contem- 
poraries to poetry in which Beauty should be supplanted by 
simple Strength: — comparing such subjects to the clubs, (altered 
to cubs in most editions), with which Polyphemus and his fellows 
pursued Ulysses. — It is, however, difficult to identify the ap- 
parent allusion. 

50 1. 34 It is doubtful whether we should supply vie, or hint, after 
reach ; or whether Keats here thought of reach as a dissyllable: 
— as (p. 52, 1. 18) gratid scrims, to have been considered. 

53 1. II liny marble : The epithet, if Keats here describes, not the 
veining, but the sharp thin fluiings and frieze-mouldings of a 
Greek Temple, is singularly felicitous. 

— 1. 26 7inshent : used apparently ior purified, or free from. 

57 As with other ancient legends, several variations of the story 
of Endymion have reached us. Keats has followed little except 
the mere outline of the simplest form: treating him as a Cari;in 
King, who slept on Mount Latmos, and was there visited by 
Selene. He has pa-sed over the perpetual sleep which is the 
common point in the old sioiies, and, in itself, is sufficient to 
show that the modern interpretation, confidently making Endymion 
the Sun, and resolving the poetry of the myth into a mode of 
saying. " The sun sets behind a mountain, and the Moon rises 
over it," is as lame as it is prosaic. 

Keats may have framed Peona, the name assigned to the sister 
with whom he provides Endymion, from Fceaiia, one of the minor 
heroines of the Faerie Qtieene (B. iv, C. 8 and 9): or he may 
have had in view Paean, the Healer or Deliverer; — the name 
given in Greek mythology to Asclepius. — But neither for this 
poem, nor for Hyperion, have I cared to enquire closely into 
names employed, or the allusions connected with them. They 
seem to be either derived from the common mythological works 
in use seventy years since, or invented by Keats himself. He 
has here a predecessor, perhaps a guide, in Spenser, who, (with 
wider classical knowledge than Keats had reached), has handled 
classical legends in the same free, inventive way, and with the 
same indiflerence to correct scholarship. 

Endymion, in truth, despite the name, is not, on the whole, 
more genuinely a Grecian tale than the Faerie Qneene. Keats 
need not have feared, with his charming modesty, that he had 
here dulled the brightness of the beautiful mythology of Helh-s. 
He has taken hardly more than tnat the goddess Selene loved the 
youth Endymion, from the old legend. It is not so much the 
canvas as the framework upon which he has woven and stretched 
a romantic piece of modern embroidery. To give this simple out- 
line extension, a few of the best-known myths are introduced: 
they form the scenery, as it were, in and before which the long 



282 NOTES. 



PAGE 

57 narrative of passion, — or, rather, the picture of passion, for vera 
passio is hardly here, — unfolds itself. — It is said that, on some 
one asking how Keats, the livery-stable-keeper's son, the surgeon's 
apprentice, could have learned his Grecian allusions, Shelley 
replied, " Because he was a Greek." In the enthusiastic warmth 
of this fine answer Shelley was, probably, thinking of Hyperioji, 
the one poem which, — at any rate during the lifetime of Keats, — 
he admired. Even in that, however, we have really the same 
romantic (as opposed to classical) groundwork which we find 
in Efidymion, presented under a Miltonic disguisal. 

Where, then, are we to look for the Greek element in Keats? 
Chiefest and best I find it in that gift which only deserves the 
name because it is exhibited by Greek literature more perfectly 
and, on the whole, more continuously and consistently than by 
any other literature: — the gift of absolutely direct and, as it were, 
spontaneous expression of the thought, whether of description or 
of emotion, before the poet. Or rather. Nature herself appears to 
speak for him : the words come by inner law ; they do not, as such, 
strike one either as prose- or as poetry: — they seem as if they 
could not have been otherwise. This freedom from conventional 
color or phrase, this Simplicity, in one word, — and Lucidity 
and Sanity with Simplicity, — is what marks all the great Hellenic 
poets, from Homer to the followers of Theocritus. When read 
closely, it is astonishing how little the diction differs from prose, 
whilst all the while it is felt to be the purest, the most essential, 
poetry. The early education of Keats had not given him the 
advantage of this experience, which, with longer life, he would 
doubtless have attained. Hence one may say that he has done 
his best, by overrichness of ornament, and by a vocabulary sur- 
charged with Elizabethan verb.il experiments and modern man- 
nerism, — "luxury," to take a favorite word of his youth, — to 
conceal that native Hellenism which was recognized by Shelley. 
A similar criticism may be made, not unfreqiiently, upon the 
language of Shakespeare. And Shakespeare himself, also, has 
hardly displayed a nobler simplicity, a more complete and appro- 
priate directness of speech, than Keats continually offers for our 
enjoyment. The freshness of phrase, going straight from his 
imagination to ours, the absolute sincerity and insight of the 
descriptive touches, even in the volume of 1817, are amazing. 
But these wonders, as Keats himself said upon Milton, "are, 
according to the great prerogative of poetry, better described in 
themselves than by a volume." — 1 had thought of adding exam- 
ples; but the reader will enjoy them most, if left to his own chase 
after Beauty. 

Tliis word, — the one which arises first upon the mind, like 
sunshine, at the very name of Vergil, Mozart, or Flaxman, — is 
also our first, our truest, thought in the case of that child of 
genius, upon whom, with reverent diffidence, these notes are 
offered. Beauty, with him, — a-; with the Greeks above all the 
world, — is the first word and the last of Art; the one quality 
without which it is not. In this respect, again, Keats is a true 
son of Hellas. Yet, as he soon felt and acknowledged, in his 
early days it is too much the beautiful for beauty's sake only, — 
too much its outward visible form, — that he pursued. It is at 



NOTES. 283 



PAGE 

57 this period that we find that splendid outburst of delight in pure 
natural loveliness which even he could hardly have bettered by 
verse: — " In truth, the great Elements we know of, are no mean 
comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire 
crown; the air is our robe of state; the earth is our throne, and 
the sea a mighty minstrel playing before it": — and again, "O 
for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts! " — It is not thus, 
however, that the greater poets of Greece thought and wrote. 
With them, (as indeed with most writers and artists till modern 
times), the landscape is persistently viewed in reference to human 
feeling and action, or, occasionally, to the presence of divine 
beings latent in or about stream and forest; rarely and cursorily 
painted for its own sake only. Nor, again, despite the Hellenic 
passion for simple, sensuous, beauty, (although pushed occasion- 
ally to a certain extravagance which has been sometimes taken 
for its normal expression), do the ancients annoimce such a wor- 
ship of the Beautiful, in this external sense, for its own sake, as 
we find revealed in the earlier work of Keats. If they seem to say 

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, 

the Beautiful was taken in its wider and deeper meaning, carrying 
with it the ideas of eternal Law, o<" divine Justice, of the Theoretic 
happiness, man living on earth a life worthy of heaven, which 
the "MasLer of those who know" set forth as the final aim of 
human existence. In Beauty, thus considered, — Man, with his 
passions, his joys and griefs, his destiny, — the world beyond the 
world, the things beneath the veil, — formed necessarily the princi- 
pal objects: and the Lamia and the Eve of St. AgJies show how 
soon our youthful poet began to move into that loftier sphere in 
which alone a thing of beauty can be a joy^i^r ever. 

For this first, simply-sensuous Beauty-worship, this picture of a 
world in which real humanity, with right and wrong, are not so 
much excluded as not recognized, Keats might have found a 
precedent, not in " the beautitul mythology of Greece," referred to 
in the Preface to Endytnion, but iii the beginning of the later half 
of the Italian Renaissance; the great age of Florentine art and 
classicalism. It is, however, improbable that he could have drunk 
deeply, if at all, at that source: nor, as I shall presently en- 
deavor to show, could he have derived his direction from his great 
Master, Spenser. He was, I conjecture, led in part by the tone 
of mind, bordering closely on a certain moral laxity, which he 
was consci )us of in Leigh Hunt, mostly by the fervor and rush 
ofpercepiive and imaginative energy wnich boiled like a torrent 
fTirough his youthful nature. I can best give an idea of this by a 
quotation, — which is not likely to be thought too long by any 
reader worthy of Keats, — from a letter written on his twenty- 
third birthday (29 Oct. 1818) to his dearly-loved brother George. 
Nowhere else, perhaps, is his innermost mind shown so freely: 
nor has any other Poet known to me made his confession with 
equal intensity and beauty of language, or given us such frank 
admission to the," mysteries of the studio." 

" Notwithstanding your happiness and your recommendations, I 



284 



NOTES, 



PAGE 

57 hope I shall never marry: though the most beautiful creature were 
waiting f,)r me at the end of a jaurney or a walk; though the 
carpet were of silk, and the curtains of the morning clouds, the 
cha rs and sofas stuffed with cygnet's djwn, the food manna, the 
wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winandermeri, I 
should not feel, or rather my happiness sh ml i not be, so fine; 
my solitude is sublime — for, instead of what I have described, 
there is a sublimity to welcome me home ; the roaring of the wuid 
is my wife; and the stars through the wind )vv-panes are my chil- 
dren; the mighty abstract Idea of Heauty in all things, 1 have, 
stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. . . . 
1 feel more a id more every day, as my imagination strength- 
ens, that I do not live in this world alone, but in a thousand 
worlds. No sooner am I alone, than shapes of epic greatness are 
stationed ar uind me, and serve my spirit the office ivhich is equiv- 
alent to a King's Body-suard: " then Tragedy with scepter'd 
pall comes sweeping by; " according to my stite of mind, I am 
with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theocritus in the 
vales of Sicily ; or thro v my whole being into Troilus, and, repeat- 
ing those lines, " I wander like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank, 
staying for waftage," I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so 
delicate, that I am content to be alone." 

The letters of Keats, and, in some degree, his last poems, show 
that it was not from want of manly power, lofty purpose, or inter- 
est in humanity, that he thought and wrote in this almost Epicu- 
renn strain: — although it is idle to conjecture in what direction 
his great genius, — greater in promise, as his illustrious successor 
in Poetry has more than once remarked to me, than any born 
among us suice Milton, — woulJ have exhibited its maturity. 
The wnnt of high, human, aim in its noblest sense is, however, the 
point in which Keats most differs from that Master to whom in 
early youth he was mainly indebted. In the prefatory letter to 
the Faerie Qnee>ie Spenser, — " our sage and serious Spenser," 
as Milton named him, — himself sets forth as his object, "to 
fashion a gentleman or a noble person in vertuous and gentle 
discipline." " No one," says Mr. Aubrey de Vere in a recent 
Essay, published in Dr. Grosart's edition, " no one was more 
familiar with forest scenery, or with the charm of mead and 
meadow and river-bank; but he left it for poets of a later age to 
find in mtural description the chief sphere for the exercise of 
their faculties. He lived too near the chivalrous age of action and 
passion. . . . His imaginuion and his affections followed the 
mediaeval type. All that he saw was to him the emblem of things 
unseen; the ma'erial world thus becime the sacrament of a spirit- 
ual world, and the enrthly life a betrothal to a life beyond the 
grave." So Pr ifessor Dowden, in his equally able Essay: — 
" The high distinction of Spenser's poetry is to be found in the 
rare degree in which it unites sense and soul, moral seriousness 
and ths Renaissance appetite for beauty. . . . With all its opu- 
lence of color and melody, with all its imagery of delight, the 
Faerie Qtieene has primarily a moral of spiritual intention. 
While Spenser sees the abundant beauty of the worH, and the 
splendor of man and of the life of man, his vision of human life 
is grave and even stern." 



NOTES. 285 

PAGE 

57 It will easily be seen how far the Endymion falls below this 
ideal, and suffers, hence, in sustained interest. In one element, 
indeed, he was without Spenser's advantage: — Medieval types, 
as employed throughout the Faerie Queene, were not available 
for Keats. Ihit element he has replaced by recurrence to Grecian 
mythology. And, — had lie rendered this in its vital essence, 
though more remote in time than Medievalism, its beauty and 
its breadth of human nature might have supplied some compensa- 
tion. As it is, the somewhat external Hellenism which he repro- 
duced here and (though in severer style) in Hyperion, was 
incapable of supplying adequate body or unity to the narrative. 
These poems want the unifying "architectonic" faculty: — the 
"touch of nature" that gives Hie to the whole. — But the Poet, 
(whose perfect modesty in regard to his own work is in curious 
contrast with the over-frequent self laudation of Spenser), him- 
self remarked upon Eitdy»no7i .• " I have most likely but moved 
into the go-cart from the leading-strings." 

As a true artist, Keats knew his own deficiencies: nor does 
Shelley's estimate o^ Etidyinion, both at the time of publication 
and when he wrote his letter of remonstrance to Mr. Gifford, 
(1820), view the poem more favorably. It would be more agree- 
able to dwell here upon the magical beauties of detail which even 
in Spenser himself are not more frequent or more magical. One 
might transfer Ben Jonson's name for his own minor poems to 
Endymion : It 'S not so much a forest, as Underwoods . Or we 
may think of tl... luxnriafolioruni of that tree in the Garden of 
Proserpine described by Spenser, 

Clothed with leaves, that none the wood mote see, 
And loaden all with fruit as thick as it might bee. 
Splendid as are the foliage and the flowers, Endymion is an 
almost pathless intricacy of story: a Paradise without a plan. 
What page, however, is there here in which the Poet does not 
give us lines or touches so fresh, so vigorous, so directly going 
to the very heart of Nature, that more of essential Poetry is con- 
centrated in one than can be found in whole volumes by his imi- 
tators? I had marked many such phrases: — but, as noticed 
before, they are best left for the reader's delight and discernment. 
Meanwhile, a few words by the Poet's biographer may close this 
over-lengthy attempt. " Let us never forget," says Lord Hough- 
ton, " that, wonderful as are the poems of Keats, yet, after all, they 
are rather the records of a poetical education, than the accom- 
plished work of the mature artist." Even thus, however, what poet, 
in the whole range of literature, at twenty-four, has rivalled them? 

58 1. 13-31 Endymion was begun, (it seems at Carisbrooke,) April 
1817: by September following, (at Oxford,) he had reached B. 
iii: B. iv was finished on 28 November; B. i was given to the 
publisher January 1818. " I am anxious to get Endyvnon printed 
that I may forget it, and proceed," Keats says with his usual utter 
and delightful modesty, in a letter of 27 February. The lovely 
Preface is dated 10 April. 

66 1. 14 the raft Brntich : Apparently, the branch torn off. Keats, 
who may have taken the word from Spenser, appears either not 



2 86 NOTES, 



PAGE 

to have noticed the want of a syllable in 1. 15, or to have satisfied 
his ear with the words as they stand. 

68 1. 15 The last word of this line, with eight others in Endymion, 
is, — 1 do not doubt, intentionally, — left without a rhyme. 

69 1. 37-38 One of the rare touches of exquisite human feeling which 
Keats has allowed himself, — perhaps, which his chosen subject 
and treatment allowed him, — in Emiyinion : — a poem, under 
this aspect, curiously contrasted with the Isabella and the St. 
Agnes. 

70 1. 20-22 " A substantive," says Professor Earle, " may suddenly 
by a vigorous stroke of art be transformed into an adverb, as 

forest in the following passage: 

more forest wild." 
{Philology of the English Tongue: 1873). 

72 I. 7 ditamy, dittany: In Old French, dictame ; whence, prob- 
ably, the spelling used by' Keats. 

77 1. 8-17 This analysis of Sleep and Dream is worthy of Shake- 
speare, in Shakespeare's bast manner. 

85 1. 8-12 Keats here alludes to the ill-success of his volume of 1817. 

— 1. 13 chaffing: chafing. 

— 1-34 P'g^^t ■' placed. 

92 1. 23 " zephyr-boughs among," the common reading here, was 
probably in the mind of Keats. Hut with a poet of literary train- 
ing so incomplete, so unconventional, and of such imaginative 
force, conjectural emendation, to which his abnormal phrases and 
rhythms tempt, is even more than ordinarily uncertain and unde- 
sirable. — The verbal peculiarities of Keats I have hence, also, in 
general left unnoticed. He copied much, no d)ubt, from our 
elder poets: but he also invents with the freedom which is one 
of the prerogatives of all Poetry, and of all language in a vital 
condition. 

94 1. 29 tenting : perhaps, (it has been suggested to me,) referring 
to the drapery of Adonis, stretched from knee to knee. 

95 1- 35 Since Ariadne became companion to Dionysos. 

— 1 37 Vertnmnns : This name, with Pomona, after the fashion 
of the Italian Renaissance, carries us abruptly from Hellenic to 
Graeco-Roman mythology. — The Cupid picture (p. 97, 1. 20) is 
classical, but in a similar vein. 

104 1. 12 In this amorous extravagance, — which reminds us of the 
conceits of Lovelace, rather than of the Ancients, — it is probably 
idle to enquire why Ida is introduced. 

107 1. 12 Hermes' pipe : Argus was thus lulled to sleep as he was 
guarding lo, and slain by Hermes at command of Zeus. 



NOTES. 287 

PAGE 

112 1. 1-20 " It was an unfortunate occurrence," writes Lord Hough- 
ton, narrating the introduction of Keats to Leigh Hunt and his 
associates, " that Keais became unwittingly identified, not only 
with a literary coterie, with whose specialties he had little in 
common, but with a supposed political association for revolution- 
ary objects with which he entertained nothing beyond the vaguest 
sympathy." — In this atmosphere it is no wonder that the Poet's 
wing should flag, and his verse go heavily. But he soon renews 
his mighty youth; — nor has the whole poem a lovelier passage, 
nor one more deeply felt, than the moonlight landscape which 
concludes the paragraph. 

Lmes 26-31, p. 122, on the other hand, are a specimen of the 
singular prose matter which occasionally occurs, entwined in 
the golden tissue of the song. This lapse seems to me especially 
to characterize the transitions, (always so difficult to manage), in 
the story. 

115 1. 17 Two other magnificent pictures of the world beneath sea 
may be compared with this: Clarence's dream in Richard III, 
and the vision related by Panthea in Prometheus Untoicnd, 
Act iv. — Keats, at twenty-two, fairly rises to- his place beside 
Shakespeare and Shelley. 

123 1. I Hercules: From Gades to Egypt. 

139 1. 4 Doris : daughter to Oceanus, and wife of the wise Nereus, 
— named sometimes the Ai£-aean, as finding in that sea his chief 
seat of empire. 

143 I. 3 in twain should here, doubtless, ioWovi for them. 

152 1. 35 dcedale: Appears used for variable. 

153 1. 24 throe: possibly, to tremble: or, to throw, in its sense of 
twisting and turning. 

154 1. 15-155 1. 8 This strongly felt and written psychological pict- 
ure seems to reveal the seriousness of the poet's later years, 
when the sensuous beauty-world of boyhood was no longer suffi- 
cient to distract the soul from the " burthen of the mystery," 
which no highly-gifted spirit can long escape recognizing. 

156 1. 27 shent: disgraced. 

158 I. 79 This line presents the single clear trace of experience derived 
from his medical training which 1 am aware of, in all the poetry 
of Keats. The absence of such is remarkable; for anatomy and 
physiology are fertile in suggestive images, beautiful or power- 
ful, for poetry. 

159 1. 4-23 The sustained flow and clear diction of these beautiful 
lines, — like those noticed (1. 15, p. i54-l- 8, p. 155) , — foreshadow 
the poet's maturest style. There is in this book, — apparently 
not written in immediate sequence with the preceding, — an ideal 
character, strangely blended with a few notes of sweet human 
feeling, which seems to me similarly prelusive. 



258 NOTES. 

PAGE 

i6i 1. II Alludes, presumably, to Hyperion. 

165 1. 39 / said: Endymion here, soliloquizing, refers to the 
phrase in 1. 25, and it is needless to change the pronoun for 
" he": See note, p. 92, 1. 23. 

170 For this note Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, the publishers, ap- 
pear to be responsible. The reason here alleged for the abindon- 
ment of Hyperion may have coexisted in the mind of Keats with 
that which can be inferred from his letter of Sep. 22, 1819, quDted 
later on. It should be noticed that he is named on the title-page 
as " Author of Endymion." 

" My book is coming out," Keats says of this little volume 
(Summer, 1820), " with very low hopes, though not spirits, on 
my part. This shall be my last trial; " — Alas! and it was so — : 
" not succeeding, I shall try what I can do in the apothecary 
line." With this compare Shelley's remark (Feb. 1821) upon the 
failure, as he believed, of his Cenci: " Nothing is more difficult 
and unwelcome than to write without a confidence of fin ling 
readers." 

171 Lavtia, in hand by July 12, was finished by September 5, 181;. 
I give these and similar dates, because in the short life ani (if 
the phrase may be admitted) tropical rapidity of growth in the mind 
and powers of Keats, months count like the years of advance in 
case of ordinary mortals. Lamia, placed first in the volume of 
•3820, may, however, be considered as his last poem: written 
" with great care, and after much study of Dryden's versifica- 
tion." " I have great hopes of success," siys Keats in his letter 
of 12 July 1819 " because I make use of my judgment more 
deliberately than I have yet done; but in case of failure with the 
world, 1 shall find my content." 

The clear, close narration, and the metre of Lamia, reveal at 
once the influence of Dryden's Tales: Keats here freely admits 
the Alexandrine, and the couplet-structure is much more marked 
than in Endymion or the Epistles : while he has admirably 
found and sustained the balance between a blank-verse treatment 
of the " Heroic" and the epigrammatic form carried to perfection 
by Pope. A little of the early mannerism remains: but those 
over-daring strokes of imaginative diction, those epithets jarringly 
bold or familiar, which we find in the volumes of 1817 and 1818, 
have here given place to tiie secure and lucid touches of mas- 
terly art. Details no longer urge themseli^es forward in lavish 
and bewildering profusion: the whole is supreme over the parts, 
every word in its place, and yielding its effect in fulness. The 
rhyme, in Endymion often forced, is managed with an " opulent 
ease," a Spenserian fluency. Lamia leaves on mv ear an echo 
like the delicate richness of Vergil's hexameter in the Eclogues: 
the note of his magical inner sweetness is, in some degree, reached 
upon a different instrument. I offer this as an illustration, with- 
out wishing to press far the parallel between the two great Poets; 
yet we are reminded of Vergil's grand style by the exquisite skilly 
with which Lamia's love-song (p. 179, 1. 14-18), like that of 
Silenus in Eclogue VI, is brought in without breaking the current 
and continuity of the metre. 



NO TES. 



171 After the remarks on the Hellenism of Keats in my note upon 
Eiidyinion, it may be enough here to add that Lamia is truly 
Greek in its direct lucidity of phrase, in its touches fresh from 
Nature, in its descriptive details subordinated to serious human 
interest. It is Greek also, (though of a lower phase), in its 
simple sensuousness, which indeed, at times, though rarely, (as 
in p. 180, 1. 8-13, 20-25), passes the line of taste: whilst here, 
also, the Peris and Adam touch a dissonant chord. Some writers 
of modern date have gained the praise of being Greek by linguistic 
turns, quaint archaeological acctiracy, or baldness supposed statu- 
esque: — Keats cares for none of these things; so far as he is 
Greek, he is so by birthright; yet, as mere truthful description, 
nothing, probably, can be found more true to Hellenic life than 
such a picture as that given, — p. 180, 1. 30-p. 181, 1. 5 — of 
Corinth at night-fall. 

_ Lamia is, however, essentially " romantic " rather than " clas- 
sical," — as the Eve of St. Agnes is a frank piece of medieval 
legend. 

Poetry more absolutely and triumphantly poetical than these 
two tales display, I know in no literature: if the-.estimate may be 
hazsrded, they appear to me emphatically the masterpieces among 
the Poet s longer work. 

173 I. 18 the star of Lethe : Hermes, apparently, is here thus named 
in allusion to his office of soul-leader from life to Tartarus. 

176 1. I Whither fled Lamia : Cenchreae is a seaport on the south 
side of the Isthmus of Corinth ; the Peraea, a mountainous district 
to north-west. Cleone lies to the southward. 

— 1. 28 unshent : Keats here seems to use this, one of his favorite 
old words, as equivalent to maiden. 

193 Isabella : finished by 27 Ap. 1818, at Teignmouth. The source 
is Boccaccio's Decamero7te, Gior. iv, Nov. 5, where the tale is 
placed in the mouth of Philomena. But the story, rather baldly 
told, is without the fine detail, the touches of character, the depth 
of sentiment, — the poetry, in short, with which Keats has clothed 
it. In St. xix he makes a graceful apology for his enlargement 
of the original theme by the episode upon Isabella's brothers and 
their trading ventures. Boccaccio, true to his usual creeping 
morality, treats their conduct to Lorenzo as a piece of natural 
common sense. — The old literary superstition, (analogous to that 
which placed Ariosto among the supreme poets, or Guido among 
the sff^ueme painters, of the world,) clinging still about Boccaccio, 
influenced Leigh Hunt, and, probably through him, Keats. But 
although the Decamerone had great value in its own day as a 
master-work in style, singidariy graceful and lucid in point of 
narrative diction, yet it really contains very few stories which, 
even looking to bare plan and form, have any poetical merit: 
whilst in his moralization and the general character of his tales, 
Bnccaccio is own brother to Polonius. Even the skill and taste 
of Keats have not here fully succeeded in turning the coarse, 
physical motives common to the Decamerone and other medieval 



290 NOTES. 

PAGE 

193 Stories, into beauty. Yet the pathos and picturesqueness of the 
whole is such that we have no reason to regret that song upon 
the fate of the lovers which, (according to Philomena,) " anchora 
hoggi si caiita," — in Naples or Messina. 

195 St. ix Some overcolor, some overpressure of the phrase remains 
here: so in st. xiii: — Keats has not yet reached the self-restraint 
and clearness of his latest work. But the rhyme is very rarely 
forced. 

197 St. xvi, xvii The general sense of these stanzas is more intelligible 
than the expression, in v/hich closeness and condensation pass 
into obscurity. Hawks of the ship-mast forests 1 take to be, 
Ready to pounce on the trading- vessels as they come in : Malay , 
Oriental trade in general. 

207 St. 1, 1, I the Persian sword : Perseus, the slayer of Medusa. 

208 St. liv, 1. 8 leafits : In this pretty diminutive, (whether borrowed 
by Keats or coined,) the analogy oi floweret may have been 
followed. 

212 The Eve of St. Agnes : Keats, doubtless, was indebted for his 
subject to Brand's " Popular Antiquities," 1795. " On the eve 
of her day," 21 Jan., that writer says, " many kinds of divination 
were practised by virgins to discover their future husbands." He 
cites some line^, assigned to Ben Jonson, upon the subject, and 
refers to Burton's " Anatomy of Melancholy," as speaking of 
^^ Maids fasting 071 St. Agnes' Eve, to know who shall be their 
first husband." A long quotation from an old chap-book then 
gives the legend in detail; — furnishing obviously the outline of 
our poem. 

St. Agnes' wool (st. xiii) is that shorn from two lambs which, 
(allusive to the Saint's name,) were upon that day brought to 
Mass, and offered whilst the Agnus was chanted. The wool was 
then spun, dressed, and woven by the hand of Nuns. 

It is, apparently, as a poetical contrast to the fasting which 
was generally accepted as the due method by which a maiden 
was to prepare herself for the Vision, that the gorgeous supper- 
picture of St. XXX was introduced. Keats, who was Leigh Hunt's 
guest at the time when this volume appeared, read aloud the 
passage to Hunt, with manifest pleasure in his work: — the sole 
instance I can recall when the poet, — modest in proportion to his 
greatness, — yielded even to so innocent an impulse of vanity. 

212 A fine remark by Mr. A. de Vere upon the Faerie Qieeene 
is equally applicable to this Poein, and also to Lamia: — 
" The gift of delineating beauty finds perhaps its most arduous 
triumph when exercised on the description of incident, a thing 
that passes necessarily from change to change, — and not on per- 
manent objects, which less elude the artist's eye and hand." 

" There is a tendency to class women in my books with roses 
and sweetmeats, — they never see themselves dominant," said 
Keats, (about Aug. 1820,) alluding to a report that his last book 
was unpopular among them. This remark applies, perhaps, 



NOTES. 291 

PAGE 

212 most to the Eve of St. Agnes. Keats did not live long enough to 
attain, — as, despite his own criticism, many passages in his 
poems show that he would have attained, — the standard of his 
great Master, of whom Professor Dowden truly notes that " For 
Spenser, behind each woman made to worship or love, rises a 
sacred presence — Womanhood itself." 

This magnificent poem was written by Feb., and revised in 
Sep. 1819. 

213 St. vi-viii The mode in which Keats, — that Elizabethan born 
out of due time, — here and elsewhere, as in Isabella, "dallies 
with the innocence of love, Like the old age," seems to me rather 
the naivete of Medievalism than of Antiquity. 

217 St. xix, 1. 9 Merlin: Can it have been that a confused recol- 
lection of the tale how Uther, transformed by Merlin into the 
likeness of Gorlois, loved Igerna in Tintagel, by night, was in the 
poet's mind ? 

219 St. XXV, 1. 2 gules: a heraldic term for red: — transmitted here 
through the coat-of-arms in the casement. 

221 St. XXX, 1. 5 soother: seems used for sweeter, or softer. 

223 St. xxxvii^azu: flying blast. 

225 Nightingale: What language, except ours, is honored by 
three such splendid bird-songs as Skylark and Nightingale have 
received from Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats? — His was 
written in the spring of 1819, and is one of the six or eight 
among his poems so unique and perfect in style, that it is hard to 
see how any experience could have improved them. 

228 Grecian Urn: The rhyme-formulae of the latter six lines are 
here curiously varied. 

Had the first and last stanzas been throughout equal to the 
recond, third, and fourth, this Ode would have had few rivals in 
our, or any, literature. 

229 St. iv, I. 7 this folk: its (for this") has less improbability than 
:Se great majority of the alterations which the ordinary editions 
present. 

229 Psyche: Upon this noble Ode, where Collins and Gray may 
have been before his mind, Keats, in a letter of Ap. 1819, re- 
marks: "The following poem, the last I have written, is the 
first and only one with which I have taken even moderate pains; 
I have, for the most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry; this one 
I have done leisurely; I think it reads the more richly for it, and 
it will I hope encourage me to write other things in even a 
more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recollect that 
Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius 
the Platonist, who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently 
the goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the 
ancient fervor, and perhaps never thought of in the old religion: I 
am more orthodox than to let a heathen goddess be so neglected " 



292 NOTES. 



229 St. i, 1. 4 soft-conched: like a soft shell. Tyri'an (1. 14) : doubt- 
less, /?^r//^. — St. iv, 1. (i, fledge: furnish with feathers. 

231 Fancy: Written, apparently, by Nov. 1817. I know no other 
poem which so closely rivals the richness and melody, — and that 
in this very difficult and rarely attempted metre, — of Milton's 
Allegro and Penseroso. For the Ode, I find no date given: the 
Robin Hood and the Li)tes on the Mermaid were in existence by 
Feb. 1818. — These four little masterpieces, if compared with the 
lines Hadst tliou lived (p. 17), show the rapid advance, — the 
exotic growth, — of the poet's powers. 

238 Autumn: Sep. 1819. Another masterpiece: If, in the vulgar 
sense, not Greek, essentially it is more so than Hyperion: it is 
such as a Theocritus might have longed to write. 

239 Melancholy: Earlier, perhaps, than the preceding Ode. It has 
(to me) more of youthful mannerism. But this may be due to 
the somewhat morbid and over-subtle nature of the subject here 
handled by Keats, which a little out-ran his psychological powers. 
His letters furnish several analogous speculative passages, full of 
interest and of promise, even in the tentativeness and immaturity 
which the writer avows. 

241 Hyperion: Begun in Dec. 1818: in hand during the next 
autumn: dropped Sep. 1S19. 

This famous fragmentary poem seems to have afforded Keats 
less satisfacti )n thin any other of his works. It was printed, as 
the " Advertisement" shows, at his Publishers' desire, " and con- 
trary to the wish of the author." Still'later, he " re-cast it into 
the shape of a Vision, which remains equally unfinished." " I 
have given up Hyperion,'''' Keats writes from Winchester, Sep. 22, 
1819 " — there were too many Miltonic inversions in it — Miltonic 
verse cannot be written but in an artfal, or rather, artist's humor. 
I wish to give myself up to other sensations. English ought to 
be kept up." This phrase apparently refers to the mood in which 
he had just written those noble lines to Autumn, which I put, 
with Lamia, and five or six more pieces, amongst his maturest 
work; the work wherein art touches its genuine triumph in con- 
cealing itself: the work which, in matter and manner alike, 
embodies his most essential, his most intimate, genius. And, in 
the remarks which f )llow, the poet clearly shows a consciousness 
that in Hyperion the " artist's humor" was too prevalent: " the 
false beauty, priceeding from art," blended with " the true voice 
of feeling." — Keats, criticising here for the last time his own 
work, touches on the note which is most sensible in his poetry, as 
it is that which lay the deepest in his own nature. Almost more 
thin passion f)r beauty, — althoneh, indeed it is, rather, itself 
the file flower of beauty, — tenderness, — almost passing into 
tremulousness, — seems to me his characteristic. Here and there, 
whilst he was little more than a boy, we hear this note in excess. 
But Keats, in both the qualities just named, true child of Spenser, 
has also the manliness of nature, the sanity of sentiment, which 
underlie everywhere that ripple of gold which ripples through 
the Faerie Queene. Beyond any of his great compeers during 



NOTES. 293 

PAGE 

241 the last two centuries, (if I may here venture thus to sum up the 
imperfect criticisms on his genius which are offered in these 
notes,) Keats had inherited, not only as Man but as Poet, — or 
rather, as Poet because he was so as Man, — the inspiration and 
the magnanimity of the great age of our Muses; — more than any, 
he is true English-Elizabethan: — Had the years of Milton been 
destined for him, of him, more than of any other it might have 
been prophesied. 

Fortunate puer! Tu nunc eris alter ab illo. 

Despite the marvellous grandeur of its execution, the judgment 
of Keats upon this work appears to be thoroughly well founded. 
After an introduction worthy to be compared with what the 
Propylaea of the Acropolis at Athens must 1 ave been, at once in 
severe majesty and in refinement of execution, the interest of the 
story rapidly and irremediably falls off. It is, truly, to take a 
phrase from the Preface to Liidy}tnon, "too late a day." 'Ihe 
attempt to revivify an ancient myth, — as distinguished from an 
ancient story of human life, — however alluring, however illus- 
trated by poets of genius, seems to me essentially impossible. 
It is for the details, not for the whole, that we read Hyptncn, or 
Pro77ietheus Uiibotiitd, or the German /// igeveia. Like the great 
majority of post-classical verse in classical languages, those mcdern 
myths are but exercises, (and, as such, with their value to the 
writer,) on a splendid scale. The stcry of which Hyperion tells 
the beginning is, in fact, far too remote, too alien from the mcdern 
world: it has neither any definite symbolical meaning, nor any of 
that "soft humanity" which underlies the wild magic oi Lajiiia, 
and has rendered possible a picture, true not only to Corinth two 
thousand years ago, but to all time. — Yet, with such strange 
vital force has he penetrated into the Titan world, and all but 
given the reality of life to the old shadows before him, that, had 
this miracle been possible, we may fairly say that Keats would 
have worked it. 

The author was, hence, right in " giving up" Hyperion. Yet, 
by a singular irony of literary fate, Hyperion was the first of his 
poems which seems to have reached fame beyond his own Eng- 
lish circle of admirers. Byron, in a passage often quoted, placed 
its sublimity on a level with Aeschylus. But the criticisms which 
it called forth from Shelley are the most noteworthy. In Nov. 
1820 we find him writing that he has received "a volume of 
poems by Keats; in other respects insienificant enough, but con- 
taining the frasment of a poem called Hyperion. ... It is cer- 
tainly an astonishing piece of writing." Nor was this Shelley's 
first impression onlv ; for on 15 Feb. 1821 he returns to Keats: 
" His other poems are worth little; but, if the Hyperioft be not 
grand poetry, none has been produced by our contemporaries." — 
If we remember the masterpieces contained in the precious little 
book of 1820. it may be reasonably held that even the political 
antagonists of Keats and his friends could hardly have exceeded 
these criticisms in blind prosaic injustice. So may one great 
poet, — and he, snow-pure from taint of envy or malice, — mis- 
understand and misestimate another ! 



294 NOTES. 

PAGE 

241 My object in these notes has been only to aid readers to enjoy 
the Poems before them; not to offer a formal estimate of the 
genius of Keats, or of his place in English poetry. But, as the 
writer is little known in England, I will suggest to some readers 
that in Andre Chenier (1762-1794) they will find a poet curiously 
and, on the whole, (1 would venture to think), nearly analogous 
to Keats. In both. Beauty is the first and last note heard; both 
were led to the legends of Hellas as a natural source of inspira- 
tion; in both, freshness of phrase, picturesqueaess of form and 
presentation, easy abundance of imaginative description, are con- 
spicuous. I may refer, as illustrations, to Chenier's Episile to 
Le Brun and the Marquis of Brazais (No. i, Ed. 1852), to the 
Third Epistle to Le Brun, and that to De Pange (No. iv) : to 
the fragmentary Idyll, Les Colomdes (No. xix), and that num- 
bered xii, the influence of which over Alfred de Musset is obvious. 
— Chenier's longer Idylls, though brilliant in skill, have too much 
of Gallic epigram and rhetoric to do full justice to his exquisite 
genius. 

253 The speech of Oceanus, with its reasonings from natural law 
and development, may remind us of the rationalistic vein which 
we find, here and there, throughout the Idylls of the King. 

267 I This fine sonnet was written by Jan. 1818, soon after the 
completion of Endymion. 

II This song, of a strange and ineffable beauty, with Nos. 3, 4, 
6, 7, I conjecturally place in 1818-9. 

268 III A fragment from an Opera. 

268 La belle Datne : Keats is not quite at his best, not quite 
himself, in this imitative Ballad, — which, alone among his poems, 
is admirable rather for the picturesqueness of the whole, than, (as 
with Lamia or the Nightingale), for the equal wealth of the 
details also. 

271 V Composed at Teignmouth by Sep. 1818. 

272 VIII Keats wrote this, — said to have been his last poem,— 
after landing on the grand Dorset coast at the beginning of his 
voyage to Italy, Autumn, 1820: — when " the bright beauty of the 
day and the scene revived for a moment the poet's drooping 
heart." 

What would have been the next development in the genius and 
poetry of Keats, — aged but twenty-f^ur when he sighed out his 
soul in this lovely Sonnet.' I can offer nothing here but the Poet's 
letters: It is better to close the book with his own words. Latnia 
had been completed, Hyperion laid aside, in September 1819. 
Two months later, speaking of some poem, undefined, perhaps, 
even to himself, which he desired to write, he says: "As 
the marvellous is the most enticing, and the surest guarantee 
of harmonious numbers, I have been endeavoring to persuade 
myself to untether Fancy, and to let her manage for herself. I 
and myself cannot agree about this at all. Wonders are no 



NOTES. 295 

FACE 

272 wonders to me. • I am more at home amongst men and women. 
I would rather read Chaucer than Ariosto": — adding, (in 
another letter), with characteristic modest sincerity, " Some think 
1 have lost that poetic fire and ardor they say I once had. The 
fact is, I perhaps have, but instead of that I hope I shall substitute 
a more thoughtful and quiet power. I am more contented to read 
and think, but seldom haunted with ambitious thoughts. I am 
scarcely content to write the best ver,-<e from the fever they leave 
behind. I want to compose without this fever; I hope i shall 
one day." — That day, however, Keats was never to see. Bis 
fatal attack followed very shortly upon the letter above quottd, 
and his medical knowledge forbade him to nourish the hopes 
which ofteu delude and alleviate consumption. Once more, 
(Feb. 16, 1820), he turns to Nature, but with what a pathos, — 
with how deeper a sense of humanity, than in his younger days! 

" How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world 
impress a sense of its natural beauties upon me! Like poor 
Falstaff, though I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; 
muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have known 
from ray infancy — their shapes and colors are as new to me 
as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is 
because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the 
happiest moments of our lives. I have seen foreign flowers in 
hothouses, of the most beautiful nature, but I do not care a 
straw for them. The simple flowers of our Spring are what I 
want to see again." 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



As late I rambled in the happy fields . 
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl 
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Ever let the Fancy roam 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel 
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year 
Full many a dreary hour have I past . 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean . 
Glory and loveliness have passed away 
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning 

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs 
Hadst thou liv'd in days of old 
Happy is England ! I could be content 
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good . 
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look 
How many bards gild the lapses of time 

In a drear-nighted December 
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings 



PAGE 
36 

268 
57 

234 
272 

241 
231 

193 

271 

271 

26 



35 
17 
42 

15 

40 

272 

36 

267 

I 



297 



298 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there 

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry . 
Love in a hut, with water and a crust . 



Many the wonders I this day have seen 
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold . 
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse 
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains . 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist . 
No! those days are gone away .... 
Now Morning from her orient chamber came 
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning 

O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 

O solitude! if I must with thee dwell . 

O sovereign power of love! O grief ! O balm 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals 

Souls of Poets dead and gone .... 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong 

The poetry of earth is never dead .... 
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men . 
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace 
To one who has been long in city pent . 

Upon a time, before the faery broods 



What is more gentle than a wind in summer 
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state 
What though, while the wonders of nature exploring 
When by my solitary hearth I sit . 
When I have fears that I may cease to be . 
Woman I when I behold thee flippant, vain . 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake 



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